


The Joy of Little Things

by obsessivereader, Sealcat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Protective Bucky Barnes, dragon Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader/pseuds/obsessivereader, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealcat/pseuds/Sealcat
Summary: "Do you want me to eat you?"“No, but—” Steve broke off his instinctive response. All his life, he’d believed in doing what was right… he was not about to stop now. Wincing at the prickling pain in his feet, he straightened up to his full height. “Yes. If it means you’ll leave this place.”"But you don’t look very filling." The tip of the dragon’s tail twitched. "I don’t suppose you’re a virgin?" he asked hopefully. "I’ve heard they taste better."Steve gritted his teeth and refused to answer. The dragon could very well find that out for himself. He stared at the dragon. The dragon stared back. Then the dragon got up, turned around, and went back into his cave."Well? Come on, tribute."or, how Steve ends up working for a dragon with a very odd sense of humor





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To Val, my amazing beta who helped make Steve and this fic better, Rohkeutta for helping to make the banner for the masterpost and the amazing Cap RBB mods for all their hard work behind the scenes to ensure a smooth and enjoyable bang. To sealcat for the amazing art that gave me so much inspiration. iamagentcoop and dentigerous for comments an on early draft of the first few scenes. Also, to the OG, the Liferaft, all the wonderful people in the RBB and SBB slack, for encouragement and support while I was writing this fic.

**Chapter 1**

 

As Steve lay on the ground, struggling to breathe through the pain in his gut, he conceded that spitting on Rumlow was a stupid idea. But since Rumlow was leaving him to be eaten by a dragon, he had no regrets—getting punched was worth the look of shocked disgust on Rumlow’s face.

Over the sound of his own gasping breaths, he became aware of a susurration coming from the mouth of the cave behind him, like dried rushes being dragged slowly over stone. The dragon. This was it.

Maybe he’d get to see his mother again. He would’ve liked to have said goodbye to Sam, but he’d left the village months ago. He wondered how long would it take for Gabe and Jim to realize he was missing. A week or two at least, since life and responsibilities had started taking up more of their time.

Enough. Stop putting it off. Softly, whispered in his mind, he heard his mother’s voice:  _You always stand up, Steven._ He groaned and got his knees under him, grateful that his hands were tied in front of him, and not behind. By slow, painful increments, he stood up. 

Stars swam before his eyes as he swayed on his feet, balance made precarious by his bound wrists and ankles. He could already feel the hot dry draft of the dragon’s breath against the back of his neck.  He looked out across the empty clearing, at the trees just turning golden in the early autumn, and tried to draw some peace from the beauty of his surroundings. With a shaky inhalation, he shuffled around. He got an impression of leathery wings and inky blackness and—

He blinked. “I thought you’d be bigger.”

Horror crept over him as he heard the words leave his mouth.

The dragon’s head reared back and its eyes flared silver, tail lashing back and forth like an angry cat’s.

Not only was he going to die, he was going to die horribly.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the dragon approach. Then came a loud inhalation which ruffled Steve’s hair. _Oh gods, he_ _’s smelling me. Please don’t let me smell tasty._ His knees felt like water, and it was all he could do to remain standing. The dragon sniffed at him a few more times, then something cold and pointed slid between his wrists and sliced right through the ropes that bound them. The same thing happened to the ropes around his ankles. He gasped as blood rushed back to his extremities, bringing with it a flood of stabbing, jabbing prickles.

He waited for something to happen. Nothing did.

Steve opened his eyes. The dragon was sitting on its haunches, head cocked like a very large and curious bird. It studied him with silvery gray eyes that held a disturbing intelligence. 

Now that Steve could get a better look, he realized the dragon wasn’t small at all. It was about double his height, and had a body corded with thick ropes of muscle. Jet black diamond-shaped scales covered it, all except for its left foreleg, which was armored in some kind of shiny silver metal. A red crystal star that caught the sunlight was affixed at the shoulder. A crest of long, spear-like scales flared out from its aquiline head.

He’d heard many stories about dragons when he was growing up, on long winter nights when folk gathered around the tavern fireplace to share warmth and each other’s company. The stories all told of the dragons’ strength and aggression, of the destruction they left in their wake. Yet the dragon in front of him didn’t seem all that aggressive or destructive.

<Are you my tribute?>

Steve looked around wildly. He’d heard a voice, but the dragon hadn’t opened its mouth. The wide clearing in front of the cave was empty, and Rumlow and Rollins should be halfway back to the village by now.

<You’re very small…> the voice continued doubtfully.

He turned back to stare at the dragon. It was definitely the dragon speaking, its head now canted forward in an attitude of polite inquiry. Somehow it, no, he—that voice was very male—was putting words right into Steve’s head. He’d never heard anything as clear as that voice before. It was smooth and deep, with a hint of gravel, and it made all other sounds seem soft and muzzy in comparison.

Then the dragon’s words registered—the slight emphasis on the word ‘small’.

His fists balled up at his sides. “I’m not that small,” he shot back. He regretted the words even as they left his mouth.

<Do you _want_ me to eat you?>

“No, but—” He broke off his instinctive response. All his life, he’d believed in doing what was right… he was not about to stop now. Wincing at the prickling pain in his feet, he straightened up to his full height. “Yes. If it means you’ll leave this place.”

<But you don’t look very filling.> The tip of the dragon’s tail twitched. <I don’t suppose you’re a virgin?> he asked, sounding hopeful. <I’ve heard they taste better.>

He gritted his teeth and refused to answer. The dragon could very well find that out for himself. He stared at the dragon. The dragon stared back. Then the dragon got up, turned around, and went back into his cave.

Steve gaped as the long, snakelike tail slithered out of sight. Was he not good enough to eat? He _was_ a virgin, gods damn it. He had a sudden impulse to chase after the dragon to inform him of that very fact. He shook his head. Being tossed around in the back of Rumlow’s cart must have turned his brain to mush.

He was free, he realized. If the dragon didn’t want him, he could return to the village. He thought about it, thought of walking away and returning to his small cottage in the woods.

But if he wasn’t accepted as tribute, the village would pay the price. The stories were all clear on that. So either Rumlow would find someone else, or the dragon would start hunting livestock, or worse, people. Everyone else had families, people who depended on them, people who would miss them. Everyone except him.

The dragon didn’t seem unreasonable. Perhaps he could be bargained with? In what had to be the stupidest decision he’d ever made in a lifetime of making stupid decisions, he resolved to follow the dragon into his lair.

The cave mouth yawned, dark and forbidding before him. He stared at it, willing himself to take the first step.

<Well? Come on, tribute,> the dragon said.

He was so stupid, he thought, as he hobbled into the cave mouth. So, so stupid.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

The cave had been a favorite playground for Steve and Sam growing up. It was large and roomy, and even had an underground river that surfaced along one side of the cave, ran alongside the back wall, and disappeared into the other side. The high vaulted ceiling, with an opening above the river, made the cave perfect for cookouts, and kept it from becoming dank.

They particularly loved the forest of large blue crystals that grew near the river bank. The crystals were magic, they decided, and would imbue them with special powers; the power of flight for Sam, and strength for Steve. When Jim and Gabe could join them, battles were fought on the pebbled shore and high-pitched war cries echoed throughout the cave.

Being familiar with the interior of the cave, it was easy to spot the signs of the dragon’s occupancy. The most obvious one, of course, was the dragon himself. He lay curled up on a nest of blankets at the center of the cave, the silver gleam of one eye just visible through a slitted lid. There was a large book stand in front of him, on which rested an open book.

Dragons could read? Steve was so lightheaded from hunger he almost blurted out the question, but caught himself at the last moment. Glass balls that glowed like sunlit mist were scattered on high ledges around the cave. He’d never seen anything like them. The light they gave off was warm and even, so different from the guttering flicker of a candle. 

Steve stepped in front of the dragon. “I’m here,” he said. “What now?”

<You can sleep there for now.> The dragon pointed towards the back of the cave with his tail.

Steve turned to look, and was surprised to make out a camp bed. A sturdy, comfortable-looking camp bed… in a dragon’s cave. He turned back to the dragon in confusion. “Why is there—”

<I doubt you can return to the village,> the dragon continued, cutting him off. <They’ll just bring you back.>

Steve blinked and shook his head, distracted by the ringing that had started up in his ears. “And then?”

There was a sly tone to the dragon’s voice when he said, <Who knows? I’ll get hungry sooner or later.> The dragon closed his eyes and let out a long, sighing breath. <There are clothes in there.> The dragon’s tail lifted and pointed at a leather pack near the bed. <You can use them once you wash.>

Wash? Was this like washing rutabagas before eating them? Was he the rutabaga? Spots danced before his eyes, then his knees gave out and the floor rushed up to meet him.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

He woke to the sound of running water, and his body aching and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Given the choices he tended to make, waking up in that condition wasn’t all that unusual. The gnawing ache of hunger was also distressingly familiar.

What was unusual was the bed he woke up in. It was far more comfortable than what he was used to, and the wool blanket that covered him wasn’t threadbare and itchy. The bedding held a faint trace of an earthy, comforting scent—like pine logs burning in a fireplace. He stroked the blanket, enjoying its soft warmth as he blinked himself fully awake. From the angle of light, he estimated it was late afternoon.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, something clamored for attention. After some thought, he realized what it was. _Dragon._ He sat up as fast as his aching body allowed. The interior of the cave spun like a wobbly top and black spots buzzed before his eyes. Food. He needed food.

<Recovered from your faint, I see.> There was a rustle as the dragon turned a page with the tip of his tail.

“I did not—” Steve clamped his mouth shut. Was he really going to argue with a dragon?

The dragon swiveled his head to look at Steve. <You most assuredly did,> he said with relish.

Was the dragon teasing him? Like a cat toying with a mouse? Fists clenched and teeth gritted, he made himself stand up and walk over to the dragon. “Are you hungry yet?”

The dragon’s silvery eyes gleamed. <Why do you ask?>

“We had a bargain.”

<We did?> the dragon asked, with every appearance of innocence.

“Yes. You eat me, you leave this place.”

<Oh, that bargain. I don’t recall agreeing to it.>

“Would you agree to it now?” Steve snapped. He wanted it to be over. He wanted the dragon to agree, and then he wanted the dragon to knock him unconscious before his courage could fail him. 

The dragon tilted his head and studied Steve. <Is there any reason why you’re in such a hurry to get eaten?>

There was a sincere curiosity in the dragon’s question that pulled an answering honesty from Steve. “I want to protect my village,” he said. “And this is the only way I can.”

<By letting me eat you.>

“If that’s what it takes.”

The dragon studied him for a long moment, then his voice turned sly. <We could make a different bargain…>

He eyed the dragon. “What kind of bargain?”

<Hands are useful things.> The dragon held up his right foreleg and flexed glossy black claws that were at least two inches long and looked razor sharp. <Good for rending and tearing, not so good for picking strawberries. You stay here and be my hands and I’ll leave the village, and everyone in it, alone.> His tail swished back and forth as he spoke, making a soft scraping sound that was oddly soothing.

“And the livestock.”

<And the livestock.>

The dragon’s easy capitulation made Steve even more suspicious. “What do I need to do?”

<Hand things. You know…> The long, scaly tail flicked idly back and forth. <Fetching and carrying, writing letters, brushing blood off my teeth, things like that. Nothing dangerous, I assure you.>

Steve wasn’t exactly sure brushing blood off a dragon’s teeth counted as ‘not dangerous’. “Dangerous to you, or to me?”

<Dangerous to you. I won’t let you come to harm.>

“I won’t do anything immoral.”

<Understood.> The dragon watched him, perfectly still for once.

The secret amusement in the dragon’s tone set alarm bells ringing, but try as he might, he couldn’t see where the trap lay. It wasn’t as though he had any other choice—he would do what he could to protect the village and the people who lived in it. Not getting eaten was an added benefit he couldn’t ignore.

“Done,” he said.

<Done.> The triumphant note in the dragon’s voice sounded rather like a cage door closing. <You may call me Buchanan,> he continued, grand and gracious as a host welcoming an honored guest.

“Oh,” Steve said, suddenly awkward. “I’m Steve.”

<Steve,> Buchanan said slowly, savoring the syllables.

A shiver ran through Steve at the intimacy of hearing that voice in his head. The shiver turned into a pronounced sway as his head spun from hunger.

Buchanan eyed him. <You should probably eat before you faint again.>

“I did not—” Steve swallowed the rest of his words and walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. It wasn’t a lot, considering how much his knees were shaking from a combination of hunger and shock. Mostly shock, if he was honest with himself. 

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

<Are you sure that’s enough?> Buchanan asked Steve as he carried his plate over to the small folding table.

He looked down at the two slices of bread and salt pork on his plate, more than he usually got to eat for lunch, and then at Buchanan. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”

With an exasperated sigh, Buchanan went back to reading.

Steve looked around the cave while he ate, gaze alighting on the bed, the table, the pack full of human clothing. “Is there someone else living in this cave with you?”

<Why do you ask?>

“Well, you have all these things for people.” He waved a hand at the evidence of a human occupant.

<A dragon can always do with a pair of hands.>

He straightened. “So there is someone else living here?” How was he to keep his end of the bargain if the dragon already had someone helping him?

<Only you, Steve. The one who usually helps me is… away at the moment.>

Steve relaxed at Buchanan’s words. “He won’t mind that I’m using his things?”

<I’m sure he won’t,> Buchanan said, with a furtive humor that Steve found worrying.

“You didn’t eat him, did you?”

Buchanan turned to look at him. <Where does this constant fascination with being eaten come from?>

He flushed. “Well… we’ve all heard the stories.”

<Old stories, I’d wager,> Buchanan said scornfully, flicked his tail, and went back to reading his book.

It was true that the stories had the smooth worn edges of constant retelling, and that Buchanan hadn’t caused any trouble since he’d arrived a week ago. Yet everyone in the village had seen the dragon flying overhead and become terrified. Which was to be expected, since no being that gave off the sense of coiled power that Buchanan did, and was possessed of wings and fangs and two-inch long claws, could ever be anything but terrifying. It was more that he didn’t act terrifying, which seemed an important distinction.

Another thought occurred to Steve. “How did you get me into the bed?”

Buchanan’s eyes gleamed when he coiled his tail around the book stand, picked it up, and waved it about. <Like that,> he said. <Although you were a lot floppier, so there was more dragging and shoving involved.> Then he put the book stand down and carried on reading.

Buchanan could have left him on the floor where he’d fallen, but hadn’t. For some reason, the image of Buchanan wrestling his unconscious body into the bed with nothing but his tail, and then pulling the blanket over him, wasn’t as disturbing as it probably should have been. “Thank you,” he said.

Buchanan nodded and turned back to his book.

Since Buchanan didn’t seem to mind answering Steve’s questions, he decided to ask another. “Buchanan?”

<Mmm?>

“What are those balls with the light inside them?”

Buchanan looked at the ball nearest to him in surprise, as though he’d forgotten they were even there. <Glow globes.>

“How do they glow like that?”

<Dragons can create light. It’s a simple conjuring that even younglings can do. Our artificers bind them and trap them in glass.>

Dragons could do magic. Of course.

Steve felt like he’d stepped through a sidewise door and emerged into another world which ran widdershins to his own mundane one.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

He dug through the pack Buchanan had pointed out to him, looking for clothes he could borrow. Whoever had functioned as Buchanan’s hands before Steve had expensive taste, if the clothes and soap he found were anything to go by. He gathered up what he needed and, after a furtive glance at Buchanan to make sure his back was turned, stripped off his clothes. He hurried through his bath, wincing as the soap stung his cuts and the raw skin around ankles and wrists.

By the time he was done, he was shivering, and the tips of his fingers had turned a light gray. He hurried into the borrowed clothes and discovered, to his dismay, that they were made for a man very much larger than him. No matter how he folded the fine linen sleeves of the tunic, they kept unrolling, and the hose sagged around his ankles. He walked back from the river feeling like a child playing dress up.

The closer he got to the center of the cave, the warmer it became. It was Buchanan, Steve realized, he was the source of it. Steve slowed as he walked past Buchanan, trying to absorb as much heat as possible. Something coiled around his wrist, jerking him to a surprised halt. He looked down and saw that it was Buchanan’s tail.

<Why are you blue?>

“I’m not—”

<Do you argue like this with everyone?> Buchanan asked.

“Yes,” Steve admitted on a sigh.

Buchanan tsked. <I forgot how cold the water is. I cannot have my hands falling sick. You may sit here till you warm up.>

“I can—Hey!” Steve landed with a thump on the blankets when Buchanan tugged at Steve’s wrist with his tail. “I can take care of myself,” Steve snapped. He unwrapped the bit of tail coiled around his wrist. “You can’t move me around however you want.”

<I’m not worried about you, Steve.> Buchanan pulled his tail away and tapped Steve’s hand with the tip. <Just your hands. They’re for doing my work remember? Can’t have your fingers falling off because of frostbite.>

 _Ass_ , Steve fumed silently. He leaned back against Buchanan even though it felt like he was leaning against a giant pine cone. As warmth seeped into him, he had to admit that the dragon was probably right. The cave was cold, and with his weak constitution, it would be easy to fall sick. 

<Next time, I’ll go with you. At least you won’t be so cold.> Buchanan ignored Steve’s attempt to interrupt. <Don’t worry. I won’t look. Your honor will be preserved.>

Bargain, he reminded himself, as he gritted his teeth. “Alright,” he forced out. “Thank you.”

Buchanan threw off so much heat that Steve soon went from being so cold he had a tight, sick feeling in his stomach, to warm and drowsy. Buchanan’s deep, even breathing, and the rushing of water over stones were the only things he could hear. When his eyelids began to droop, he jerked himself upright. Best not to fall asleep against a dragon. He studied the interior of the cave, looking for something to do.

Buchanan, or whoever had been helping him before, was not the most meticulous when it came to tidiness. Books were scattered everywhere in disorganized piles, several packs were strewn near the camp bed, and one very large and misshapen pack was thrown against the far left wall of the cave.

Steve himself wasn’t all that tidy either, but he had a job to do, and he intended to do it well. He got to his feet and started gathering up the books nearest him. There were books on astronomy and herbology and science and mythology. Each was beautifully illustrated and illuminated and most were too advanced for him. He knew his knowledge of letters was hardly more than basic, but seeing them drove home how little he knew of the world outside the village. He wondered if Buchanan would mind if he read them in his spare time.

He gathered up a respectable pile of books and started sorting them by subject. The whole time he worked, he could feel Buchanan’s eyes on him.

<Such an industrious pair of hands. I have chosen well.>

Steve glared at the dragon as he placed a book on astronomy on the astronomy pile. When he was done, all the books were stacked in neat piles on flat rocks to raise them off the cave floor. He was looking for more things to do when his eyes fell on the dragon curled up in the center of the cave. Cleaning dragon teeth might not be something he was quite ready for, but he’d groomed his fair share of horses at the Wilson farm—perhaps those skills could be applied to the dragon?

Buchanan watched with interest as he approached. Steve said, “I could… groom you?”

<What a wonderful idea,> Buchanan said. <You shall do this bright and early tomorrow morning.>

He hoped the villagers appreciated how much he was putting up with for their sakes. At the rate he was going, his throat would be sore from all the words he was swallowing.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

Here was a fact that Steve never expected to learn firsthand: a sleeping dragon resembled a cat that had curled itself up into a ball, chin resting on tail. As Steve watched, Buchanan began to stir; his wings twitched, then eyelids slid slowly up to reveal clear, silver eyes. Their gazes locked for a moment before Steve looked down at his plate, cheeks hot at having been caught staring.

Buchanan yawned, the forest of sharp teeth in his mouth glimmering in the watery morning light. He uncurled himself and stretched his wings out before pulling them back in. <Steve,> he said, in a sly, sleepy tone that made Steve immediately wary.

“Buchanan.”

<I believe there was mention of grooming last night?>

Steve nodded.

<Well, then.>

Buchanan got up, stretched his neck and tail to the accompaniment of little popping sounds, and walked into the river until he was submerged. Without meaning to, Steve held his breath while he watched the shifting surface of the water and waited until Buchanan breached the surface, like a monster rising from the depths. Water cascaded off him as he raised his wings and emerged from river.

<Don’t dwaddle, Steve,> he said, as he went past, his armored leg making a distinctive clank as he walked out of the cave.

Steve hurried after him with a rag and a frown. When he was just out of the cave mouth, he had to duck when Buchanan shook himself like a dog and flapped his wings, making water droplets shimmer around him in a sparkling cloud. Little curls of steam wafted off him as he settled on the grass near the entrance and said imperiously, <Here.>

 _Yes, master_ hovered at the tip of Steve’s tongue, but he stifled the impulse. Buchanan would almost certainly take a liking to the title and insist that Steve continue to use it. That was to be avoided at great cost. Using the rag in his hand, he began wiping Buchanan down, not surprised to find that the heat of Buchanan’s body had already dried up all the water. Whoever had groomed Buchanan before Steve hadn’t been particularly diligent, if the amount of dirt trapped between his scales was anything to go by.

Steve worked his way from shoulder to haunches. He studied the diamond-shaped scales that covered Buchanan, already planning out how to capture their grainy surface and the ridges at their edges using his charcoals. If he had the chance to get close enough to a dragon to do a detailed study, he was not going to waste it.

Buchanan’s breaths grew deeper and slower. He slipped into a half-doze as Steve worked, eyes going slitted and unfocused. About halfway up Buchanan’s neck, Steve hesitated, then switched over to the left side and worked his way down again. Snout and face and teeth could wait for another day when he was less wary of bringing his tasty virgin flesh near Buchanan’s abundance of sharp teeth.

Steve stopped when he reached the armored foreleg, uncertain how to proceed. Buchanan said in amused tones, <Go ahead.>

“Should I take the armor off first?”

<It’s not armor,> Buchanan said. <And it doesn’t come off.>

Steve’s gaze snapped back towards the leg. If it wasn’t armor, and it didn’t come off… “Is your whole leg metal?”

<It is.>

The leg moved like its flesh-and-blood mate. How was it possible that it was made of metal? “How does it—” He cut himself off, embarrassed.

<I will tell you about it one day.> Buchanan closed his eyes. <But not today.>

How did Buchanan lose his leg? How did the metal leg work? Who made it? Did it hurt? He pressed his lips together to hold back the questions flooding his mind.

It was the same light color as the silver of his mother’s locket, but he’d never seen any silver as durable and reflective as the metal of Buchanan’s leg. Not a single spot of rust marred its surface. The leg was constructed of rings of metal which fit together smoothly, starting from below the knee. Above the knee, the rings overlapped to allow greater range of movement. The blood-red star near the shoulder joint was made of a faceted crystal that caught and refracted the light in its clear depths.

It was a marvel. Perhaps even magical, he realized, recalling the globes in the cave.

When Steve was done, Buchanan looked himself over with a pleased air. <You have done a fine job, Steve. I thank you.>

“You’re welcome,” Steve said, flustered by the easy praise. He staggered backwards when Buchanan snapped open his black, leathery wings with a loud swooshing sound.

<And now to breakfast,> Buchanan called out, as he took off from the clearing.

Steve shielded his face when the backwash kicked up the autumn leaves littering the clearing floor. “I just cleaned you,” Steve shouted after the departing dragon.

<We can do this again when I come back,> was the infuriating reply.

Steve watched him fly away, impressed, in spite of his irritation, by the beauty and grace of Buchanan on the wing. It was only after he went back into the cave that he realized Buchanan didn’t seem at all worried about Steve running off while he was away hunting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

“I’m running low on food, Buchanan,” Steve said. Only half a loaf of bread left, some shriveled turnips and carrots, and maybe enough salt pork to make another pot of stew. It was Sunday, market day, and he wanted to make a trip to the village to buy more food.

Buchanan looked up from yet another book. Steve wondered how Buchanan maintained his muscles in peak condition when he hardly ever moved from his nest. He supposed the few hours a day Buchanan spent outside the cave must provide him with enough exercise.

Buchanan uncurled himself. <I’ll see what I can do.>

“Wait!” Steve chased after him as he walked out of the cave. “I can get—”

With one powerful downward thrust of his wings, Buchanan was airborne.

“—everything I need from the market,” Steve said to the empty clearing. “You idiot!” he shouted at the fading black dot that was Buchanan. He breathed deeply several times, tried to let the beauty of trees clothed in autumn leaves calm his irritation. It didn’t help very much. With a growl, he stomped back inside.

The cave felt empty and cold without Buchanan in it to warm it up. The previous human occupant either didn’t feel the cold or only packed for one season, that season being summer, so Steve draped a blanket over his shoulders to ward off the chill. He helped himself to one of Buchanan’s sheets of parchment, sharpened a piece of charcoal from the campfire, and began to doodle. It wasn’t all that surprising when a dragon in flight began taking shape. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed while the roughly sketched dragon became more recognizably Buchanan, when a familiar voice sang out in his mind.

<Come see what I brought you, Steve!>

Steve dusted off his hands and walked out, already selecting some choice words for Buchanan. His jaw dropped. “What—?”

He stared at Buchanan, who was standing in front of the cave with a large buck dangling lifelessly in his mouth. 

<Ask and you shall receive,> Buchanan said. <Will this not keep you well fed for days?>

“I can’t eat a whole deer!” It would rot before he could finish it, and he didn’t have the supplies to salt or dry it.

<Do you not want this magnificent buck I have procured for you?> Buchanan asked, with an injured air. 

After a moment, Steve said, “Oh, very funny.”

Buchanan chuffed with amusement.

“So what exactly am I supposed to eat, then?” he asked, trying to ignore the strangeness of talking to a dragon with a mouthful of dead buck.

<I’ll give you some gold to buy what you need from the market.>

“Gold.”

<Did you want something else? Precious stones? Pearls? I can give you those too, if you want them.>

Steve watched with horrified fascination as the buck’s legs swayed to the rhythm of Buchanan’s words. He was so distracted that it took a moment for Buchanan’s meaning to register. “No, I don’t want any of those,” he said, not altogether sure Buchanan was joking. “I don’t even want the gold. Don’t you have copper or silver coins?” He wouldn’t even have asked for the money if he still had any of his own, but he’d lost his purse sometime during the struggle with Rumlow.

<You insult me.> Buchanan snorted. To Steve’s relief, he placed the buck on the ground. <As if I would give you dross. I’m fairly certain I don’t even have such coins in my possession.>

Steve gritted his teeth. “I’m not trying to insult you, Buchanan. It’s not practical to shop with gold coins—they attract too much attention.”

<But Steve, I really don’t have anything but gold coins. You can check my—er, my previous hands’ pack. There should be a purse in there with coins that you can use.> As though he considered the discussion to be over, Buchanan started gnawing on the hindquarters of the buck, impervious to Steve’s glare.

Steve went back inside and dug through the packs. After a few minutes of furious searching, he was forced to concede that there really were nothing but gold coins. What kind of idiot traveled with nothing but gold coins? 

He took the leather coin purse he found and poured out all the coins. One coin he returned to the pouch. The rest he wrapped in a silk handkerchief and returned to the pack.

When Buchanan came inside, Steve was very relieved that he went straight to the river to wash and didn’t require his teeth to be cleaned.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

The market was already in full swing when Steve set foot in the village square. It was a cacophony of criers calling their wares, the buzz of conversation, and the laughter and shouts of children as they ran through the crowd. He was almost at the first stall before anyone noticed him. Whispers started up, spreading like a ripple on the surface of a pond, as the people nearby backed away from him. Children were caught and held close. He heard shocked voices, and some fearful ones, and caught Sitwell making a warding sign in his direction.

Steve frowned and looked about him. Whatever reception he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this—he’d only been gone four days, after all. He may have been considered odd all his life—too sickly, too argumentative, too unwilling to ignore the little injustices he saw in daily life—but no one had ever been afraid of him before.

While he was still trying to gauge whether the fear would turn into something uglier, he became aware of a change in the tone of the market square. There was a rising tension that didn’t seem to have anything to do with him, as the crowd’s attention was caught by something behind Steve.

He turned in time to see Alexander Pierce, the village squire, emerging from the crowd, flanked by Rumlow and Rollins. Unlike most of the men in the square who were dressed in some variation of tunic and hose, Pierce wore a jacket, and he had breeches over his hose. His clothes were made from rich fabrics in restrained grays and blues, a subtle advertisement of Pierce’s wealth.

“Steven,” Pierce said, with the patronizing air that always set Steve’s teeth on edge. For all Pierce’s avuncular friendliness, the flatness in his eyes belied his warmth. Steve suspected there was a deep fault line of cold ruthlessness that ran through the man.

“Pierce,” he said, as he tightened his grip on his basket and nodded in acknowledgment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabe pushing his way through the crowd towards him.

“I’d like to speak to you,” Pierce said. “In private.” He nodded at Rumlow, who took a step forward.

“Here is fine with me,” Steve said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He set his jaw and tightened his fists. If Pierce wanted a private chat, they would have to drag him kicking and screaming through a crowd of onlookers. He was not going to make it easy for them.

“You told us the dragon took him,” Gabe said as he reached Steve’s side, accusation clear in his voice. Gabe must have rushed over from the workshop—he still had on his leather apron, and there were little curls of wood shavings caught in his hair. “You told us Steve was dead.” A mutter ran through the crowd at this and several people turned to Pierce and his men with doubt in their eyes.

“Took me?” Steve said, not above playing to the crowd to help his cause, and breathing a little easier with a friend at his side. “You mean when Rumlow and Rollins ambushed me at my cottage, tied me up, and then left me for the dragon to eat?” Murmurs of surprise and dismay ran through the crowd at Steve’s words.

Pierce frowned at Steve, then studied the watching crowd, assessing their mood. He waved Rumlow back with a subtle movement of his hand. “That was also what I was told,” Pierce said to Gabe. A look of distaste crossed his lined face, either because of the kidnapping or because their discussion was being played out in front of everyone. “I wish I’d been consulted before certain actions were taken.”

As always, there was the feeling that Pierce’s words obscured more than revealed. Steve wasn’t sure if Pierce meant he would have stopped Rumlow and Rollins, or helped them plan it better.

“I’ve spoken to them,” Pierce continued. “They’ve seen the error of taking matters into their own hands.” Pierce glanced at Rumlow. “Isn’t that right, Rumlow,” he said mildly.

Rumlow’s gaze flicked to the watching crowd. “Yes,” he rasped, but the look he gave Steve was far from remorseful.

“However it happened that you ended up at the dragon’s cave,” Pierce said, brushing aside Steve’s being left for dead, “I can’t help but notice that you’ve not only emerged unharmed, but in need of supplies.” Pierce raised his eyebrows and gave Steve’s empty basket a meaningful look.

Steve shrugged and gave in to the petty impulse to wait for a direct question from Pierce. This earned him a narrowing of the eyes and a slight pursing of the lips.

“How are you still alive, Steven?”

“I’m in the dragon’s employ,” he replied, careful to hide his satisfaction at Pierce’s carefully enunciated words. Some part of him resisted disclosing his bargain with Buchanan, since it was a private matter between the two of them. He had even less desire to share the things he’d learned about Buchanan; that he was kind, that he had a sly sense of humor, even that he could read. But when he looked at the people surrounding them, saw their worry and fear, he added, “The dragon doesn’t mean the village any harm. He does his hunting elsewhere.”

There was a silence broken only by the shifting sounds of the crowd as Pierce studied Steve for a long, uncomfortable moment. “And just what is it that you do for the dragon?”

Steve stiffened. “That’s between the dragon and me.”

“Well,” Pierce said, with a slight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “if the dragon requires any other assistance, we would be happy to entertain his requests.”

 _Even if the dragon wanted more tributes?_ Steve noticed that Pierce didn’t place any limitations on his offer. “I’ll be sure to pass along your message.”

“In fact,” Pierce continued, “if the dragon would prefer someone more… capable in his employ, we could arrange that as well. I’m sure you’d like to return to your own home.”

Steve drew himself up to his full height at Pierce’s insinuation that he was less than capable. “I’ll pass that along as well.”

“Good, good.” Pierce looked as though all was right in his world once more. It was probably the thought of gaining some form of influence with a dragon that pleased him. “I shan’t detain you any longer, then,” he said, lips curved in the semblance of a smile. He turned away, Steve once more beneath his notice. With one last flat-eyed stare in Steve’s direction, Rumlow followed behind Pierce, Rollins falling in next to him. The crowd parted to let them through.

He was still glaring after them when Gabe pulled him into a hug that left him gasping for air.

“I thought you were dead, Steve.” Gabe held him at arm’s length and looked him over. The emotion in Gabe’s voice took Steve by surprise. He hadn’t given much thought to how his sudden disappearance would be viewed by those left behind. “Hells, man. Jim and I drank to your memory. And if Sam had been around, he would’ve gone to fight the damned dragon. And _then_ we’d have to go save him.”

“I’m sorry.” Guilt burned in his gut. “I should have—”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Gabe slapped Steve’s shoulder. “You’ve got your hands full, working for a dragon. What in the hells must that be like? I’d be terrified.”

“It’s not so bad. Buchanan’s…” he paused. When he thought about how to describe Buchanan, ‘unexpected’ was the word that sprang to mind; unexpectedly kind, unexpectedly mischievous, unexpectedly funny. “He’s alright,” he said finally. This earned him a dubious look. “He _is_.” Nothing Steve had seen so far gave him reason to fear for his life.

Gabe didn’t look all that reassured, but he dropped the issue. “I wish we could sit down and talk, I mean, it’s like you came back from the dead, Steve.” Gabe blinked and cleared his throat and continued, “But I need to be getting back.” His smile was regretful. “Dunbar doesn’t know I left the workshop.”

The carpenter Gabe was apprenticed to was not a forgiving sort. “You should go,” Steve said. “And Gabe, thank you.”

Gabe gripped Steve’s shoulder for a moment. Steve could feel relief in that tight grip, and it made him realize how much he’d missed the closeness they’d shared as children.

“You should stop by the apothecary’s before you go. Jim won’t stop swearing for a week if he knew you were here and didn’t go and see him.”

Steve could already picture Jim, standing behind the counter of his father’s shop, dusty bottles behind him because he hated dusting, cursing like the cranky old man he was deep down. “I will,” he said with a smile.

With a last wave, Gabe disappeared into the crowd. When Steve looked around, he saw more welcoming faces. Hodge and Brandt still eyed him with suspicion, but that was nothing new, so it was much like every other market day. 

Or at least it was, until he went to pay for his eggs. Grimsley’s eyes widened at the sight of the shining gold coin, and he stammered out an apology to Steve as he checked his purse for change. Steve flushed and tried to ignore the speculative looks thrown his way.

While Steve waited for Grimsley to count out his change, he noticed Rollins watching him from where he was slouched against the tavern wall. Steve’s skin crawled at the memory of rough hands grabbing him from behind, a gag being tied over his mouth, and a hood pulled over his head. He remembered being sightless and powerless in the back of a horse-drawn cart, and the sting of rough rope against his skin as he struggled to free himself.

To disguise the sour taste of fear in his mouth, he sank himself into the memory of his anger; at Rumlow, at Rollins, at being abducted, anger that still simmered close to the surface. It was an old and familiar trick, because every time he fought, he feared, but he refused to let that stop him.

Steve hung the heavy coin purse back on his belt and continued through the market, all the while aware of a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. When he decided to stop by at his cottage on the way back to the cave, it was partly from necessity and partly from a stubborn refusal to give in to his fear. It wasn’t altogether a surprise when he got there and found his larder empty and his small cache of coins missing. 

He felt very alone in the secluded cottage as he packed up his things and boarded it up. 

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

It was just past noon when he got back to the cave, weighed down by his basket and his pack. When he walked in, he found Buchanan having what appeared to be a staring contest with a large raven perched on his book stand.

<Oh good, you’re back,> Buchanan said without taking his eyes off the raven. <Come along, come along. I need your hands.>

A smile tipped up one corner of his mouth at Buchanan’s voice in his head. He set his basket down on the table and rubbed his aching arm while he studied the raven. There was a large black vial strapped to the raven’s back, partially disguised by its black feathers. He guessed he was supposed to remove it. The raven eyed him as he edged closer.

<Don’t worry, Steve. It won’t hurt you. Not if it knows what’s good for it.> This last was addressed to the raven, which gave a mocking caw in reply.

“I don’t think it’s scared of you, Buchanan,” Steve said, as he approached the raven, hands held up to show his good intentions. “And who says I’m worried.”

<I’m not blind, Steve,> Buchanan said, sounding amused.

The perverse creature refused to show its back to Steve, so he was forced to unfasten the vial with the raven’s sharp, glossy beak far too close to his eyes for comfort. As soon as the vial came free, the raven—and Steve would swear on this—flared its wings and cawed just to spook him. Trust dragons to use ravens instead of the more standard, and docile, messenger pigeons. Stepping back hurriedly, he popped open the cover of the vial and pulled out a roll of parchment.

Buchanan watched him closely, every line of his body tense with anticipation. Steve bit back a smile and took his sweet time laying out the letter on the book stand; unrolling it with great care, opening it up where it was folded down the center of its length and pressing the crease flat, and smoothing out the ragged corners.

<Inefficient hands get eaten,> Buchanan said in a peevish tone.

Steve snickered. “Then you’ll have to find someone else to put up with you.” He pinned down the corners of the letter with stones while Buchanan crowded him from behind, hot breath ruffling Steve’s hair.

The letter was covered in tea-colored stains, and the penmanship could best be described as careless. It was signed, _Natasha and Clint_. While he was laying out the letter, he caught one reference to flying, so he guessed that they were dragons too. He got out of Buchanan’s way, or rather he was nudged out of the way by an impatient dragon, and went to put away his things.

<Steve,> Buchanan said a few minutes later. <Come help me write my reply.>

“‘Please, Steve’,” he muttered under his breath. “‘Thank you, Steve.’” He scrounged up writing materials, sat at the table, and began to transcribe Buchanan’s words.

After a few paragraphs of what seemed a lot like gossip, Buchanan gave Steve a sly look. <‘An interesting thing happened a few days ago.’> When Steve narrowed his eyes at Buchanan, Buchanan said, <Go on Steve, write that down.>

Steve gripped his quill and wrote.

<‘The nearby village gifted me with a most unusual tribute. I have decided to keep him rather than eat him, as he seems a useful sort, if rather quarrelsome.’>

Steve could feel Buchanan watching him as he wrote. On principle alone, he refused to rise to the bait, instead concentrating on keeping his handwriting even. After a moment, Buchanan huffed a laugh and finished off with his farewells to Natasha and Clint.

<Sign your name on the letter, Steve,> Buchanan instructed, after Steve had finished writing Buchanan’s name. <They’ll want to know who wrote it.>

Was there a furtive amusement in Buchanan’s voice, like Buchanan knew something he didn’t? He studied the dragon, but Buchanan’s face gave nothing away. It was probably his imagination. With a shrug, he wrote his name next to Buchanan’s.

He rolled up the letter and put it into the empty vial. “Is Natasha the dragon, or Clint?” 

<Natasha.>

So it was Clint who’d written the letter. He filed that knowledge away. Perhaps he would ask Clint for tips on working for a dragon. Steve sent the letter off with the raven, then sat down to his lunch.

He peeked at Buchanan while he chewed determinedly on a slice of stale bread. “Can you toast bread?”

Buchanan didn’t look up from where he lay on his nest of blankets. <No.>

“Oh. That’s disappointing.”

That got Buchanan’s attention. <What I _can_ do is incinerate bread. And the person holding it. I can demonstrate if you’d like.>

Steve swallowed. “Ah, no… no, thank you. I’ll take your word for it.”

He chewed his way through the last bite of bread and decided he’d put it off long enough. “When I was at the market, the squire came to see me. He asked if—if you’d prefer someone else to help you.” He shrugged. “I can see how that’d be better for you; you could get someone stronger and fitter to help you.” Returning to his cottage, with its empty larder and missing coins, would probably not end well for him, but he would if that was what was best for the village.

<Steve.>

Steve looked up from the crumbs he’d been corralling into a tiny circle and found himself the focus of Buchanan’s intent gaze. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he straightened in his seat.

<Are you trying to renege on our bargain?>

There was nothing threatening in Buchanan’s tone, but Steve couldn’t help being very aware of needle-sharp fangs, jet black claws, and about twenty-odd tonnes of dragon. He got to his feet, slowly and carefully. “No. As long as the village is protected, that’s all that matters to me. If you want me to stay, I’ll stay. If you want someone else, I’ll go.” For some reason, the thought of someone else moving into the cave in his place to help Buchanan niggled, like a burr trapped against his skin.

Steve’s heartbeat sounded very loud in his ears as Buchanan continued to study him. Finally, Buchanan said, <I see no reason to change our arrangement. You will remain here and I will continue to honor the terms of our bargain.> He waited for Steve’s nod before turning back to his book. <You should also tell this squire person that I will not appreciate anyone showing up here uninvited.>

Relief flooded Steve at the reprieve he’d been given and he sat down, knees gone shaky. “Alright, Buchanan.”

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

<Steve,> Buchanan said piteously.

Steve bit back a smile and carried on adding details to the crest of Buchanan’s head. He was glad to have his own specially-made charcoals back. They were thin and sharp and much better suited to the fine work of delineating Buchanan’s scales.

<Steve, there’s something stuck in my tail.>

“If you’d stop twitching it around so much, that wouldn’t happen,” Steve said, trying to sound stern. He flipped over the sketch and looked up. Buchanan walked in looking disconsolate, wings drooping till the tips were mere inches from the ground.

<I’m a dragon, Steve. Boundless energy. Can’t be expected to keep still.>

“Then don’t complain if things get stuck in your tail.”

Buchanan lay down next to Steve, nudged the table aside and laid his head on Steve’s lap. Steve sucked in a startled breath as he jerked back and yanked his arms out of the way. The only thing that kept him from falling backwards off the stool was the weight of Buchanan’s head pinning him to his seat.

Big, silver eyes gazed up at him. <Take it out for me?>

Heat sank into the bones of Steve’s thighs, and he had to resist the urge to stroke Buchanan’s head. _Dragon_ , he reminded himself, _teeth._ It was getting harder to remain wary of Buchanan, especially when he did things like rest his head in Steve’s lap and look at him with woebegone eyes. How twenty-odd tonnes of death could be so ridiculously endearing, he could not understand.

“Alright,” he said with mock exasperation. “Let me see.”

Buchanan dangled the tip of his tail in front of Steve, so close that he went a little cross-eyed.

“Hmmm.” He grasped the tail in one hand and moved it further away so he could inspect it. If there was something stuck between the scales, it was hidden by soil caked onto the tail. Made sense, he supposed, since it was always trailing along the ground. “I’d better clean it first. Come on,” he said, as he went to get a rag. Buchanan trailed behind him as he made his way to the river.

Whatever Buchanan had on his tail proved harder to remove than anticipated. When his back started to ache from kneeling at the water’s edge for too long, he decided to take a more direct approach. “I’m going to get in the water. Hold on.” Gooseflesh pebbled his skin when he stripped down to his smallclothes. With a shiver, he stepped into the water and sat down on the flat boulder that lay near the surface.

It was a relief when Buchanan shifted to press his side to Steve’s back, cocooning his upper body in warmth. Buchanan curled his tail around Steve and draped the tip in his lap.

 

 

“Can I call you Bucky?” Steve asked.

<Not if you want me to answer.>

“Bucky,” he said softly, as he worked at dissolving the hardened soil with the rag in his hand. “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.”

Buchanan slanted him an offended look and rested his head on the ground.

“Buuuucky,” Steve continued, dragging out the syllables.

Buchanan made a hissing sound and turned so they were nose to nose. Steve breathed in his familiar scorched metal smell. “Bucky,” he said again, just because.

<I could still eat you, you know.>

“No you won’t,” Steve said with a smile. “You still need me to get this thing out of your tail.”

Buchanan snorted. <Don’t take forever about it.>

He stilled as a thought struck him. Sooner or later, Buchanan would leave the area, and he would be free to return to his cottage—wouldn’t have to share living space with a mercurial dragon anymore, wouldn’t hear Buchanan’s voice in his head anymore. A strange hollowness opened up inside him at the thought.

<What’s wrong?>

“I—Nothing.”

<You’re not moving. Something’s wrong.>

“I see it,” he said to cover his lapse, and started rubbing at the scales on Buchanan’s tail even though there was nothing left to clean off. He set aside the rag and lifted the tail up for a closer look. There—a large splinter had lodged under one scale. “Found it. I’m going to pull it out. Don’t bite me if it hurts.” 

<I might bite you just for that,> Buchanan sniffed.

With careful fingers, he gripped the tip of the splinter and pulled. He couldn’t suppress a wince as it came out, all three inches of it, wet and glistening with blood. Buchanan heaved a relieved sigh.

“How did that get in your tail?” Steve said, as he held it up for Buchanan’s inspection.

Buchanan radiated embarrassment. <I might have swiped a tree when I landed.>

“Is it still standing?”

<I’m flattered you think I can knock over a tree with my tail, Steve, but _yes_ , it’s still standing.>

“That’s good,” Steve said. He tried to hold back a laugh, really, he did. But the image of Buchanan leaving a trail of destruction in his wake—snapped tree trunks, broken branches, and a blizzard of falling leaves—proved too much for him.

<You’re starting to look more and more appetizing by the day, Steve,> Buchanan groused.

Steve had to scramble out of the water, still laughing, when Buchanan heaved himself to his feet with an injured snort and stalked away from the river.

“Come back,” Steve gasped out as he grabbed his clothes and chased after Buchanan, nearly losing his footing on the wet stones. “I need to clean the w-wound.”

<Dragons heal fast,> was the sulky reply.

Steve choked back another laugh as he dried himself off and hurried back into his clothes. Without Buchanan nearby to keep him warm, his skin was covered in gooseflesh by the time he walked over to where the dragon was curled up in his nest. “Let me check your tail? Please?”

There was indistinct grumbling in his head, followed by a loud sigh. <Fine.>

Steve smiled to himself and went to sit in his usual spot against Buchanan’s side. There was no blood as far as he could see, and apart from one scale which had been wedged up by the thorn, Bucky’s tail was fine. He smoothed down the scale and adjusted it till it lay aligned with the other scales. “All done,” Steve said with one final pat.

Buchanan didn’t reply, just wrapped his tail around Steve’s waist instead.

When the last of the chills that wracked his body were chased away by Buchanan’s heat, it was time for Buchanan’s daily brush-down. Steve got his cleaning brush and rag, while Buchanan went to lie down near the entrance. Steve had come to look forward to this part of their routine. He enjoyed the simple act of caring for Buchanan, and it helped him to settle after a day spent struggling to decipher the books in Buchanan’s collection. He thought Buchanan enjoyed it too. He would lie in a half-doze for as long as Steve was brushing him.

When he reached the metal foreleg, Steve switched to a rag. “Can I ask you something?” Steve said as he polished the leg. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

<Of course,> Buchanan answered.

“What happened to your leg?” He should have waited for Buchanan to tell him in his own time, but patience had never been one of Steve’s virtues.

<Those stories about dragons you mentioned… do you ever wonder why they’re all old?>

“I—hadn’t thought about it, actually,” Steve said, as he polished the metal rings that made up the leg.

Buchanan angled his head so he could watch Steve work. <Some dragons saw nothing wrong with taking whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Older dragons mostly, those who still believed in the old ways of fang and claw. They killed without mercy; weaker dragons, old or young; it was all fair game. Some of us realized that if we didn’t do something, the younglings would be picked off one by one. So we banded together and fought back.>

“Oh.” Something inside Steve twisted at the thought of Buchanan choosing to defend those weaker than himself, and getting hurt in the process.

<I lost my leg fighting one of the dragons who believed in the old ways. He was nearly two thousand years old when we faced him, so old that no one could remember his real name. We called him the Hydra for his ability to regenerate. Even lost limbs would regrow. It took three of us to defeat him, but only two of us made it back.> There was a pause. Then, Buchanan said in a voice soft with old sorrow, <I lost my clutch mate that day… sister, I think you would have called her.>

Steve wished he could soothe that sorrow, but the best he could do was to keep the movement of his hands smooth and gentle. He regretted bringing it up. He had no siblings, but he still carried the pain of his mother’s death with him, and probably always would. The silence was broken only by the sound of the river while Buchanan remained lost in his memories.

Buchanan shook himself. <I was fortunate that Stark was nearby when this happened. He’s dragonkind’s foremost artificer of metal. If my wound had healed before he got to me, he wouldn’t have been able to bind the living metal to my flesh and bone.> There was a soughing sound as Buchanan resettled his wings, then he curled up to lay his head on his haunches, tucked away where Steve couldn’t see.

“I’m sorry, Buchanan. I shouldn’t have asked.”

A long sigh greeted his apology. <It was a long time ago,> he said quietly.

Hoping to convey some measure of comfort, Steve placed his hand on Buchanan’s neck for a long moment. He groomed Buchanan for much longer than usual that evening, and took care to be extra gentle around the join where flesh turned into metal.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

“Steve!”

Steve was so surprised to hear a voice that wasn’t his own that it took him a moment to recognize it. “Sam?”

A grin spread across his face as he pelted out of the cave. He skidded to a stop when he caught sight of Sam astride his roan gelding, holding another saddled horse by the reins. “When did you get back?” Steve asked. His smile dimmed when he noticed the harried look on Sam’s face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sam said. “Get your things! No, never mind. Forget your things. Get on the horse.” Sam threw a worried look up at the darkening sky. “I don’t know how long that dragon’s going to be away.”

Steve blinked. “Is this a rescue?”

“Yes, you idiot! Come _on._ ”

He took a step back and shook his head. “I don’t need rescuing.”

“You don’t need—” Sam broke off and glared at him. “I come back to visit and Ma tells me that three weeks ago, Pierce told everyone you were killed by a dragon. Then, you show up a few days later with a purse full of dragon gold and disappear back into the dragon’s cave. And now you tell me,” Sam said on a rising note, “you don’t need rescuing?”

“It wasn’t _full_ of g—”

A roar shook the clearing. They instinctively ducked, while the horses pawed the air and whinnied in fear. Steve looked up and saw Bucky stooping down towards the clearing from a great height. At the last moment, Bucky’s wings snapped open and he landed with a loud rush of sound and a flurry of dried leaves. Sam fought to bring his horse under control and nearly lost his grip on the second horse in the process.

Bucky stalked towards them, with wings flared and a cold light in his eyes. All Steve could see were claws and fangs and fury. This was Bucky, he reminded himself, as his heart tried to climb out of his throat and he struggled not to back away.

Sam yanked at his horse’s reins to force it around, putting himself and the horses between Steve and Bucky. He drew his sword.

_< You dare to steal from a dragon?>_

The words rang in Steve’s head, iced over with fury. Sam flinched and his sword wavered as he looked all around. Steve had to do something before Sam ended up dead. He moved in front of Sam and stood his ground, as Bucky continued his inexorable advance.

“Steve!” Sam hissed and tried to grab at Steve. “Get back here!”

Steve dodged Sam and held his hands out. “Bucky. Stop… please.”

Bucky’s head swiveled towards him. <We had a bargain, Steve.> His voice was clipped and hard, with sharp edges that cut at Steve’s mind.

“He’s my friend. He was only trying to help me, he didn’t know.”

Behind him, Sam slid off his horse. Released, both horses broke for the trees as Sam tried to get in front of Steve. Bucky’s head swung back to focus on Sam. “Sam,” Steve said out of the side of his mouth, not daring to take his eyes off Bucky. “Wait. You can’t fight him and win. Let me talk to him.”

“Talk?!”

“Bucky.” He put himself in Bucky’s line of sight. The knowledge that he was purposely drawing the attention of a dangerous predator to himself made his heart crash against his ribs. “I swear I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t plan this. I wasn’t trying to escape.”

Bucky looked down at him, neck arched and wings held high, his breath loud as a blacksmith’s bellows as smoke curled from his nostrils. Steve made himself edge forward, hands out, until he was close enough to rest his hand on Bucky’s snout. The skin was hot, much hotter than normal. “I wasn’t leaving. I made you a promise.”

Slowly, slowly, the tension drained out of Bucky’s muscles. His wings furled and his tail ceased its furious lashing.

<It’s never wise to break a promise to a dragon.>

“I don’t break my promises, Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes swirled with silver. Steve held his gaze without flinching, hiding nothing, hoping Bucky could read the truth in his eyes.

<See that you don’t.> Without so much as a glance at Sam, Bucky stalked into the cave.

Steve stared after him, jittery with unreleased tension as the scent of iron left too long in the blacksmith’s forge hung in the air. It was the first time he’d truly understood what it meant that Bucky; mischievous, whimsical, and kind Bucky; was a dragon. In the course of Steve coming to think of Bucky as something akin to a friend, he’d lost sight of just how deadly Bucky could be.

He startled when Sam laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What was that?” Sam pointed in the direction of the cave. “You’re talking to the dragon? That voice in my head—that was the _dragon_? And what’s this promise you were talking about?” He gave Steve a baffled glance. “What in the hells happened while I was away?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story.”

“Then I guess you’d better start talking.” Sam sheathed his sword and folded his arms. “Because I don’t think that dragon of yours is the patient sort.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t meet him under the best circumstances, Sam. He’s really very nice.”

<I can hear you.>

“Gods!”

“What?” Sam whispered, as his hand went to his sword. “What’s wrong?”

“He, uh, he can hear us.”

“Gods’ balls.”

Steve nodded.

Sam gave the cave mouth a hunted look, then he shook his head. “So,” he said. “The story?”

It took almost ten minutes to tell Sam what happened, because a lot of time was spent waiting for Sam to finish cursing and swearing vengeance on Rumlow and Rollins.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Sam. You’ll only get into trouble.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“I don’t have family to think of,” Steve said. “You do.” He watched Sam pace back and forth. “You know Pierce can make things harder for your family if you do anything. Besides,” he added, “it’s for the best, really.”

Sam rounded on him. “You could have died, Steve.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the village. “They meantfor you to die.”

“I was probably dead anyway,” he admitted.

A look of horror crossed Sam’s face. “What in the hells does that mean?”

“I don’t know if I’d have made it through the winter, Sam.” It was hard getting the words out. He’d always been too proud for his own good. “My situation… it wasn’t—it wasn’t so good.”

Ever since a new wise woman had moved into the village, the meager skills he’d learned from his mother before she’d passed weren’t needed anymore. No one would hire him for field work, not when there were able-bodied men around who could work faster and longer than he did. In their small village, there wasn’t much use for a man who could draw and knew his letters and numbers. The little work that came his way was probably given out of pity, and he refused to accept money from people who had families to feed.

“You—” Sam inhaled long and deep before letting his breath out. “Why didn’t you say something.”

“You were leaving. And after Riley—” he stopped at the way Sam’s face went blank. “I knew you had to leave.” He gave Sam’s elbow a brief squeeze. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

There was a silence broken only by the creak of leather as Sam squeezed the hilt of his sword. “I nearly didn’t,” Sam said. “It’s better now, but this place for me…” Sam shook his head and looked down.

Sam’s grief was a private thing, so he kept quiet while Sam gathered himself. It was a long moment before Sam said, “But Gabe? Jim? You couldn’t have told them?”

“You know I couldn’t do that, Sam. Jim’s wife just gave birth and Gabe’s still apprenticing. They’ve got enough problems of their own.” He continued before Sam could speak, “And harvest was bad this year, so no, I wouldn’t have told your parents either.”

“So you decided to let the dragon eat you?” The outraged look Sam gave him was one that Steve was very familiar with. “How is that—?” Sam’s jaw worked as he struggled for words.

“Sam.” Caught by the serious tone in his voice, Sam stilled and looked at him. “I was dead anyway. At least this way, it would’ve made a difference.” He held Sam’s frowning gaze, at peace with the choice he’d made.

Sam gave a defeated sigh. “Go on,” he said. “Finish your story.”

“That’s all there is.” Steve shrugged. “That’s how I ended up here.”

Sam’s gaze drifted to the cave opening. “Are you happy here?”

He opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again. He nodded instead.

<Answer the man, Steve.>

He shouted in the direction of the cave, “Already did, Buck.”

< _Buck?_ I am a dragon, not a deer. Are you going to keep shortening my name? Will I have to put up with the indignity someday of being called _Buh?_ > Bucky’s voice dripped with outrage. <And what was your answer?>

“What’s so funny?” Sam asked suspiciously. “Was he talking to you in your head? Why couldn’t I hear it?”

There was a sniff. <Dragon speech is a fine and subtle tool. I alone decide who is gifted with my words.>

Sam eyed him. “What’d he say,” he said in a resigned voice.

“Ahh…” Steve began, then thought better of it and shook his head.

“And did you really just call a dragon ‘Buck’?” Sam asked. “How are you still alive?”

“I—I’m useful to him, I suppose.”

<You are more than that, Steve,> Bucky chided.

Emotion surged in Steve’s chest and his breath caught.

“Steve? Hey, are you alright?”

<Steve?>

“I’m fine,” Steve reassured them both. “I’m fine. Just—” _happy_ , his mind whispered. That’s what it was, that light, warm feeling when he heard Bucky’s voice in his head—it was happiness. Sam gave him an odd look, like he knew there was more to the conversation than Steve was letting on.

“So you’re fine staying here. With a dragon.”

“Yes.”

Sam shook his head. “Only you, Steve. When Ma told me you went back to the cave, I thought maybe you were scared for your life.” Sam snorted. “‘Scared for your life’… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Stay for a meal?”

Steve ignored the disdainful snort in his head that followed the invitation.

After a brief hesitation, Sam said, “I don’t think I’m quite ready to have dinner with a dragon, Steve. You should come home with me”—here Sam angled his head in the direction of the cave and increased his volume—” _for dinner_.”

<Your friend can _be_ dinner if he continues down this road.>

When Steve choked back a laugh, Sam looked very pleased with himself. “Come on,” he said. “Ma misses you. _And_ she’s worried.”

“Oh. I—” Steve hesitated, he did have a job to attend to.

There was a loud, long-suffering sigh. <You should go. I’m sure I can survive without your hands for one evening.>

A smile crossed his face unbidden at Bucky’s words. “I’ll come,” he said to Sam.

“That’s good.” Sam looked around the clearing which was conspicuously empty of horses. “Looks like we’re going to be making the trip on foot.”

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

Dinner with Sam and his family was a warm and happy affair, with the whole Wilson family gathered around the table. Sam’s mother wept relieved tears when he’d assured her that he was happy, and healthy, and had not been gnawed upon in the slightest. Sam grumbled the whole time, but Steve ignored him.

When it was time to leave, Sam offered to lend him his father’s horse, which had made it back to the farm together with his own roan. Steve chose to walk instead, since his twisted spine made riding uncomfortable. Borrowed lantern in hand, he set out for the cave.

When he reached the clearing, his pace quickened at the sight of the light spilling out of the cave opening. He’d kept expecting Bucky’s voice in his head all evening, even when he’d been surrounded by the warm chaos of Sam’s family. He hurried inside, only to stop short at the sight of Bucky curled up, fast asleep in his nest. A little sigh escaped him as he blew out the lantern and set it down on the table.

<So you’re back.>

He whirled around as his heart did a strange thing in his chest. “You’re awake!”

<You make enough noise to rouse the dead. I don’t know how you do it.> Bucky raised his head and looked at him. <Are you cold?>

“Yes.” It was even mostly true.

With a put-upon sigh, Bucky uncurled himself and the glow globe on the book stand flared to life. Steve collected the tray with his drawing materials on it and hurried to fit himself into the space Bucky made for him. This was for Bucky, Steve reassured himself, he couldn’t function as Bucky’s hands if he fell sick.

He set the tray on his lap and continued with his sketch of Bucky’s head, which was turning out better than he’d hoped. All the time they spent resting like this gave Steve ample opportunity to study Bucky’s head. It also helped that Bucky approved of Steve drawing him. He would turn his head this way and that at Steve’s request, and would pester him for peeks at the sketch even though it wasn’t complete.

It was while he was adding detail to the crest that he realized the odd-looking scale he was shading in wasn’t a scale at all. It was actually a twig that had gotten trapped in the forest of elongated scales that made up Bucky’s crest. “Hold still,” he said. He leaned forward to pull it out and spotted more twigs trapped in the crest. He set aside the tray and started hunting in earnest, ignoring the grumbled complaints when he straddled Bucky’s neck.

“Such majesty,” he murmured later. He surveyed the little pile of twigs, dried leaves, and other things he couldn’t identify, all of which he’d pulled out of Bucky’s crest.

Bucky yawned in his face, showing him a mouthful of fangs in response.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

Steve hurried through the deepening dusk, ignoring the stitch in his side, and the ache in his arm from carrying his laden basket. At least the exertion helped ward of the unseasonal chill in the air. He should have left the tavern sooner, but it was the first time Sam, Jim, Gabe, and he had managed to sit down together in far too long. And after conveying Bucky’s message to Pierce, he’d felt in great need of a drink to wash away the oily residue left by that encounter.

They’d passed the time reminiscing and catching up on each other’s lives and ribbing Steve about being a dragon’s helper. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much. But then Rumlow had walked in with Rollins and a few more of Pierce’s men. It had taken a lot of furious whispering on Jim and Gabe’s part to convince Sam and him to remain in their seats. And from the smug look on Rumlow’s face, that bastard had known how much both of them had wanted a fight.

In the end, what stopped them was knowing that Jim and Gabe would get dragged into it, and they had families and jobs at risk. It was only when Rumlow and his friends left that they were able to relax again.

He squinted at his surroundings. Trees loomed to his left, skeletal branches almost bare of leaves, while on the right, he was hemmed in by the rocky outcrop that ran along the right-hand side of the path. Was it because he’d never walked this path in the dark that he couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding? It was like an ice-cold finger drawn down the back of his neck.

The fading light reflected off the light gray stone of the outcrop, giving it an eerie glow. It rose like a sheer wall only to end after roughly a hundred feet, as though a giant had taken a sword, sheared the rock in two, and then carted away the other half. This was the halfway point in the hour-long journey between the cave and the village.

Not even sure what he was looking for, he paused to check his surroundings again, feeling vaguely embarrassed by his jumpiness. He shifted his basket to his left hand just in case—he didn’t want the wall of stone on his right to hamper his swing. Then, with careful, quiet steps, he continued walking.

He was almost at the spot the outcrop ended when something flickered in the corner of his eye. He swung hard, trying to hit whatever hid around the corner. The basket collided with a solid thunk. He heard a muffled exclamation and the patter of his packages hitting the ground before he was shoved hard, knocking him off his feet. He was mid-shout when a sack was roughly pulled over his head.

Not again, he thought. And that was the last thing he remembered before his head exploded with pain and the world flashed red.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

Steve woke to a pounding in his head. Other sensations dribbled back in: the damp chill of the ground beneath him, the leaden weight of his limbs, the musky stench of the sack covering his face.

Scrabbling at the sack with numb fingers, he pulled it off and sucked in the bitingly cold air with relief. He patted his waist. Sure enough, his purse was missing. His jaw clenched as anger flared. Someone had lain in wait for him, no, two someones he guessed. He took some satisfaction in knowing that all they’d get for waiting in the cold for him was a bare handful of copper coins.

A quick glance at the moon’s position told him he’d been lying unconscious for at least an hour, possibly even two. He needed to get back to the cave. He rolled up onto all fours on limbs that felt heavy and uncoordinated. Using the sheer face of the outcrop for balance, he pulled himself to his feet with hands that were too numb to feel the texture of the stones under them. He wasn’t shivering. Bad sign. Small and thin as he was, it wouldn’t take all that long for him to die from exposure.

He wrapped his arms around himself and staggered back to the path, leaving his basket and packages scattered on the grass behind him. The cave, he repeated in time with his steps, the cave, it was warm where Bucky was, and Bucky was at the cave. If he kept putting one foot in front of the other, he’d get there. Every time his knees gave out, he lay where he fell for a few moments before forcing himself back to his feet. It got harder and harder each time. A stiff breeze started up, cutting through his clothes and sinking cold fingers into his bones.

 _Get up,_ he told himself, _get up. Keep walking. Crawl if you have to._ He forced himself up once more.

<STEVE! STEVE!>

Steve groaned in pain as Bucky’s voice reverberated in his head. “Bucky!” he shouted. He winced as his shout rattled around inside his skull. The cold had dulled most of the pain, but he still felt like his brain was trying to leak out of his ears.

<Steve!>

His knees gave out again and he collapsed back onto the ground. A blackness silhouetted by stars sped towards him. Bucky had found him. The thought roused a tiny flame in his heart. “Watch out for your tail, Bucky.” He laughed feebly at the silly joke, then coughed as his lungs seized from the cold.

With powerful backwings that churned the air and sent icicles through Steve’s body, Bucky landed on the path. Steve felt the impact of the hurried landing all through his body. As he watched, the huge darker mass in the dark night that was Bucky seemed to shimmer at the edges, then shift and waver and shrink down.

Panic seized him. “Bucky!” Was something attacking Bucky? Another dragon using some kind of magic attack? He struggled up and stumbled forward, desperate to reach him.

A ball of light winked into existence ahead of him, illuminating—a man. “Who are you?” he shouted. “What did you do to Bucky?”

<Steve, it’s me.>

The man rushed towards him. He lurched back, but his arm was caught in a tight grip. He gasped at the heat of that hand against his chilled skin. “Bucky!” he shouted again. He surprised the man by pulling his arm closer instead of trying to break free, then he bit down as hard as he could on the man’s hand. The man swore and wrenched his hand out from between Steve’s teeth, leaving the coppery tang of blood behind.

Quick as a snake, the man grabbed at Steve’s other arm. “Let me go!” Steve shouted. He kicked out, but the man shifted out of the way before his foot could connect. Then he was turned around, wrapped in strong arms, and hugged close to a body that put out heat like a furnace, and felt just as solid. No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t break free. Furious and scared, he stomped down with all his might on the man’s foot.

“Steve,” the man growled in a voice rough from disuse and exasperation, “it’s me.”

Steve froze. He knew that voice. “Bucky?” He spun around when he found himself released. “Bucky,” he said wonderingly. His knees buckled—his reserves burned up by his struggle with Bucky. He would have fallen if Bucky hadn’t caught him. “You’re—but—you’re a man.” The light from the glowing ball that wavered next to Bucky cast shifting shadows that left much of his face obscured. All Steve could make out was dark hair, deep-set eyes, and high cheekbones.

<I can take a human form,> Bucky said, distracted as he ran his hands up and down Steve’s arms. The metal hand felt cold and unyielding even through his clothes. Bucky pulled off his coat and draped it over Steve’s shoulders, enveloping him in warmth. <I smell blood,> Bucky ground out.

“My head. Someone knocked me out.”

A low, feral growl raised the hairs on Steve’s neck, at odds with the gentle fingers that traced over his head. He winced when Bucky brushed against the sore spot, then the fingers pulled away. In one swift smooth movement, he was swept up into strong arms. “Put me down!”

<You’re so cold, Steve. I need to get you back to the cave.> Bucky set off at a distance-eating pace. <You won’t be able to hold on to me in my dragon form.>

“I can walk,” Steve insisted. He wriggled in Bucky’s hold, but it was a feeble effort. Now that his heart had ceased its furious racing, strength was leaching from his limbs.

<I’m sure you can. But I can walk faster, even while carrying you.>

“You can’t walk all the way back to the cave carrying me. It’s too far.”

Bucky gave him a pitying look. <Dragon, Steve. I could carry you to the village and back.>

By this point, Steve could probably only manage a crawl, so he swallowed his instinctive denial and burrowed into Bucky’s heat instead. The shivers and teeth-chattering were finally starting, making his head throb harder. Steve couldn’t stop staring at the small ball of light that bobbed along above Bucky’s shoulder. Was that what was inside a glow globe, he wondered.

His thoughts continued to drift and lose coherence, lulled by the rhythm of Bucky’s stride even as returning warmth roused the pain in his head. The rest of the journey passed in flashes of images and dreamlike impressions; the warmth of Bucky’s body, the hard cold feel of metal against the backs of his knees, the sight of his finger tracing the beautiful angle of Bucky’s jaw, and Bucky pressing his cheek into the palm of Steve’s hand and a whispered, “I’m sorry. You were right about the gold.”

He blinked again and Bucky was tucking him into bed. His eyes traced the face that hovered over him. “You’re beautiful,” Steve whispered. Startled eyes met his. Oh dear, he thought hazily, had he said that out loud? Dark hair that fell to just past his chin, perfect cheekbones, and eyes the same silvery gray as his eyes in dragon form, filled with concern. Had he ever seen anyone as beautiful as Bucky, he wondered. He didn’t think so, and he doubted he ever would.

<Steve, I need to warm you up.>

“Alright,” he breathed, eyelids heavy and thoughts gauzy and far away.

<I have to get into the bed with you.>

He pushed himself upright when he heard the uncertainty in Bucky’s voice.

<Steve,> Bucky said with alarm. <What are you doing?>

Steve lifted up the corner of the blanket. “Get in,” he said, and patted the space beside him. Bucky removed his shirt— _Mmm_ , Steve thought—and slid in next to him. Oh, the heat was delicious. He sighed and snuggled close. “So warm...”

<Steve?>

“Sleepy.”

<Alright,> Bucky whispered. <Sleep now.>

He thought he felt a gentle hand touch his cheek, and then he slipped away.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

Steve woke up with Bucky pressed close to his back, warming him all the way down to his fingers and toes. It was tempting to burrow deeper into the blankets, to go back to sleep so he could enjoy the comfort of Bucky’s arms around him for a little longer.

He was still thinking about putting some distance between them when a faint scent teased at his memory. It took him a moment, but he placed it. It was the scent he’d woken up to that first day in the cave—the scent of pine logs burning. How strange that Bucky had a different scent in his human form. But was it any stranger than a dragon having a human form? When other parts of him began to wake as well, though, he forced himself to shift out from under Bucky’s arm.

<Steve?> Bucky sounded grumpy and disoriented, affronted at no longer being asleep.

Taking a calming breath, he turned to face Bucky—and promptly lost all the air in his lungs. He hadn’t imagined it. Bucky was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. It felt terribly intimate, looking into Bucky’s sleepy eyes across the length of the pillow. His fingers itched for his charcoals, wanting to capture the sharp lines of Bucky’s bone structure in bold lines and dark shadows, trace the way dark hair swept back from the distinguished brow, capture the glow of his eyes in negative spaces.

No. Oh no. This was bad. He was already… attached enough to Bucky, but if Bucky could turn into a man… He closed his eyes, turned onto his back, and drew in a shaky breath.

<Steve, are you not well?>

“Dizzy,” Steve answered with absolute sincerity. His helpful brain provided him with an image of Bucky with sleep-tousled hair and the soft, bitten lips of the just woken.

<Are you sure?> Bucky sat up, blanket pooling around his waist, and put a hand to Steve’s forehead. He pulled it away again and gave it a betrayed look. <I can’t tell. All humans feel cool to me.>

Steve stared at the hand that was on his forehead a moment ago. “You have hands.”

Bucky’s face took on a wary look, giving away emotions where his dragon face was inscrutable. <Yes,> he said carefully.

“If you have hands, what did you need me for?”

<I…> Bucky licked his lips and didn’t quite meet Steve’s eyes. <You were small… underfed,> he said, tentative, like he was feeling his way. <I wasn’t sure you’d survive the winter.> Then with growing conviction, he said, <Your people mustn’t value you very much if they’d leave you trussed up like a pig in front of my cave. They don’t deserve you. You’re better off with me.>

A cold feeling curled up from the pit of Steve’s stomach, turned his heart to ice, and lodged somewhere in the back of his throat. It was betrayal… betrayal, and shame, and humiliation that Bucky had only kept him on out of pity. And that sharp ache in his chest… it was hurt pride, he assured himself, nothing more.

“You were rescuing me,” he forced out through a throat that felt full of glass. “You pitied me. You don’t need my help at all.”

Bucky’s eyes widened with alarm. <Wait—>

Steve threw off the blanket and climbed out of the bed, ignoring the pain that spiked in his head and the heaviness in his bones. Bucky made to catch his arm, but thought better of it when Steve sent him a furious look.

<What are you doing?>

“Get out of my head,” Steve snarled. He yanked on a clean shirt and his coat to stave off the chill. It took him a moment to find his pack, but once he fished it out from under the bed, he began shoving his things into it.

“I’m sorry.”

The sound of Bucky’s voice, scratchy and thick, stopped him in his tracks. “The things you asked me to do,” Steve said, “writing letters, keeping the cave clean, you didn’t need me for any of it, did you? You could’ve done them yourself.” A bitter laugh choked him. “You probably did, too. You had everything here already; the bed, the furniture, things for writing. And if you didn’t need me, then our bargain—I thought—”

He turned away. He’d thought he was helping—helping the village, helping Bucky. Turned out his help wasn’t needed at all, as usual he was nothing more than a burden. The truth of Bucky’s deception re-framed every interaction between them and undermined every contribution he’d made—the knowledge cut at him in the place where he was most vulnerable. The other pain, that Bucky had lied to him, had been lying to him all this time, he refused to acknowledge.

There was a rustle of sheets as Bucky got out of the bed. “Do you forget so quickly that I’m a dragon when you see me like this? This is not my true form, Steve. It has its advantages, but I only assume it for convenience. With you helping me, I don’t have to change into something I’m not. Please,” he said softly, “don’t go.”

Steve didn’t answer—didn’t think he could get the words out past the ache in his chest. Looking around, he spotted the roll with his charcoals and the sketch of Bucky. The roll went into his pack, the drawing he left where it was.

“Steve. Won’t you look at me?”

He turned around to face Bucky where he stood by the camp bed. When the remorse that clouded the clear gray of Bucky’s eyes sent a shaft of physical pain spearing through him, he pulled anger around him like a shield, like a mask.

“You lied to me,” he ground out. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”

Bucky stared at him wordlessly. Steve was glad he didn’t try to deny it. He gritted his teeth and turned back to his packing. Behind him, he heard a soft, sad exhalation, then the sound of Bucky walking away. He refused to acknowledge the prickling in his eyes as he shoved the last few pouches of herbs into his pack.

There was a sudden commotion behind him. He spun around to see Bucky crouched next to several upended packs. “What are you doing?”

Bucky gathered up his clothes and shoved them into an empty pack. “I can’t stop you from going, but you can’t stop me from following you.”

Steve opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Why,” he said finally. “Why would you do that.”

Pack in hand, Bucky straightened up and mumbled something that Steve couldn’t quite catch.

“What?”

“It wasn’t pity,” Bucky said, firmer this time. “You were this beautiful little thing with hair like gold, beaten and tied up and left for dead. And yet, I’d never seen anyone so brave and stupidly self-sacrificing.”

Steve’s heart felt like it was trying to hammer its way through his ribs.

“I couldn’t let you walk away,” Bucky said. “I had to—keep you.”

The little tendril of hope withered. “I’m not a _thing_ you can collect!”

“I’m a dragon, Steve, we’re acquisitive by nature.” Bucky’s voice was soft with appeal. “When we see something that should be treasured, we want to possess it.”

“Are you telling me that I’m—what? Part of your hoard? Have you got any other short, stupidly self-sacrificing people stashed away somewhere?”

“No.” Bucky had the grace to look embarrassed. “Only you. I’ve never felt… possessive about any human before.”

The words may have been a balm to his bruised heart, but Steve refused to let them weaken his resolve. “You can’t do that. You can’t just… keep people.”

“I don’t keep _people_ ,” Bucky said, “I kept _you_.”

“What difference—” No. He was letting himself get distracted. “You lied to me,” he said. “You lied to me and you kept me here under false pretenses. What if I hadn’t accepted your bargain? Would you have let me leave?”

Bucky recoiled at Steve’s words. “I would never keep you here against your will.”

Since Bucky was in the middle of packing to follow Steve, Steve was inclined to believe him.

“I was going to tell you,” Bucky said.

“When?” he demanded.

There was a moment’s hesitation before Bucky answered. “In a month or two. I needed more time—” Bucky broke off and glanced sidelong at Steve.

“More time for what?” Steve asked, suspicious.

“More time to… work on my explanation.”

“That’s not funny,” he snapped.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Bucky said. “But Steve, I could no more have left you there than you could have walked away from an argument. A dragon does not walk away from treasure.”

It was like banging his head against a brick wall. “A person is not treasure,” he said, through gritted teeth.

Bucky stared at him. Then a canny expression crossed his face. “Would it make you feel better if I promised never to treat another person as treasure?”

Steve was reminded of the day he’d struck a bargain with a dragon. “What aren’t you telling me,” he said flatly.

Eyes wide with innocence, Bucky said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. It’s a simple promise: I will never treat another person as treasure ever again. Do you accept?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me. You should do it because it’s what is right, not because you made me a promise.”

Bucky growled with frustration. “What do you want from me, then?”

He wanted Bucky to have never lied to him. He wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted to be able to walk away without leaving a piece of himself behind.

But he rarely got what he wanted, so he said nothing.

A long, gusting sigh escaped Bucky, and he seemed to deflate. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “If I had the chance to do it over, I would offer you the work without the bargain, but what’s done is done. Will you stay? Be my hands? I still need you.”

“Why.”

“Why do I still need you?”

“Why did you lie to me.” He wanted Bucky to have a good answer, one that would fix everything so they could go back to how things were.

“It… amused me.”

“It amused you,” Steve repeated flatly. Of course. Familiar as he was with what passed for Bucky’s sense of humor, that made perfect sense. He was glad that Bucky didn’t offer excuses or justifications, since there weren’t any.

“I did not know your true worth then, and the longer I knew you, the more I regretted my lie.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything.”

One corner of Bucky’s mouth tipped up in a sad, self-deprecating smile. “Because I knew you’d be angry with me.” His expression turned serious. “Will you stay?”

“I need to think about it.” Part of him wanted to walk away, go back to his cottage; the hurt and angry part, the part that wanted to lick its wounds in private. The other part, the rational part, reminded him that he had no money and nowhere else to go.

“At least think about it here where it’s warm.”

“I can take care of myself,” he snapped, too raw to tolerate even a hint of pity.

Bucky’s lips compressed like he was holding back words. “Alright. But if you leave, I’m coming with you.”

“So come then,” Steve heard himself say.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

Bucky surveyed the tiny interior of the cottage with a jaundiced eye. It was empty save for a narrow bed, a small table and bench, a rickety larder, and the hearth. <I will—> He glanced sidelong at Steve and began again. “I will sleep on the floor,” he said, sounding resigned.

Steve continued sweeping up the dead leaves that had gotten in through the gap under the door. He avoided looking at the empty space on the left-hand side of the cottage. There used to be a bed there, but it had been torn apart for kindling two winters ago when he’d been too sick to go out for firewood. “You’ve got a perfectly comfortable cave you can sleep in.”

“I sleep on the floor there as well,” Bucky muttered, as he dropped his pack by the wall.

It didn’t take Steve long to set the cottage to rights. He stopped by whenever he went to the market, because always in the back of his mind was the awareness that his position with Bucky was only temporary. While he put away their provisions, Bucky came in from outside with an armload of firewood. The cottage immediately shrunk to about half its original size… or at least it felt that way. Steve was very aware of Bucky’s solid presence as he knelt by the fireplace, fine linen shirt stretched across wide shoulders, muscles flexing as he stacked the firewood.

“I can do that,” Steve snapped, irritated at Bucky for being so attractive, and at himself for noticing.

“You’re doing something else right now,” Bucky said, without looking up from the fireplace.

Steve closed the larder door harder than necessary and turned around. “If you want to stay here, then you should damned well respect the wishes of your host.”

“That presumes that I am here as a guest.” Bucky sounded distracted as he struck sparks off a flint. When the kindling caught the flame, he dusted off his hands and stood. From his pack, he produced several glow globes which he proceeded to place in strategic locations around the room.

With a building sense of outrage, Steve watched Bucky rearranging things to his convenience. “If you aren’t here as my guest,” he said, “then what are you here as?”

Bucky paused in the middle of placing a glow globe on a low-hanging beam and threw him a shifty look over his shoulder. “You’ll only get angry if I tell you.”

“I told you,” Steve bit out, “I am not treasure. Don’t you have a hoard somewhere? Why aren’t you off guarding it? Why me?”

“I’ve never had treasure that was ambulatory before,” Bucky said as he turned to face Steve. “This isn’t easy for me either, Steve. You hold your life so cheaply that you offered yourself up to be eaten by a dragon.” Bucky raked his fingers through his hair. “Just last night, I found you half-frozen. Do you know how hard it is for me letting you out of my sight right now? It goes against every instinct in my body to leave you unprotected—you attract calamity like carrion attracts flies.”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me. I didn’t ask for any of this.” He jabbed a finger at Bucky. “You were the one who decided I was your—your treasure. And then you lied to me because you thought it’d be amusing.”

He turned his back on Bucky and walked out of the cottage, furious at Bucky, furious at himself for caring too much, furious at the whole stupid situation. Because each time Bucky spoke of him as a possession, it was one more hurt Steve had to hide. He wanted to be so much more than that to Bucky.

The door opened behind him.

“You’d better not be out here guarding me,” Steve said to the night sky.

“I’m sorry.”

“Please,” he said, exhausted all of a sudden, “go inside.” There was nothing more to say since everything had been said; Bucky had given his explanations, and made his apologies. Now there was only anger. And hurt.

A quiet sigh, then Bucky did as he asked and went back into the cottage, closing the door carefully behind him. Steve stood alone in the little clearing around his cottage, and stared up at the cold and distant stars.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

  
The atmosphere within the close confines of the cottage was tense and uncomfortable. When it was time for dinner, he was surprised when Bucky joined him instead of changing back and flying off to hunt. He refused to ask about it, so they ate their meal in silence, chewing and swallowing mechanically, not making eye contact. Steve was still seething, so that was fine with him. Several times, Bucky drew breath to say something, but Steve kept his eyes on his plate. Bucky took the hint, and didn’t say anything.

After dinner, he started working on a sketch of Sam and his family. If it turned out well, he planned to give it to Sam during the new year’s festival. It was smiles and laughter and everyone talking at the same time, based on the dinner the night of Sam’s rescue attempt. He’d hoped to lose himself in the comfort of that memory, but Bucky was a thread that ran all the way through it, so it didn’t end up being as much of a distraction as he’d hoped.

A cold draft blew in through gaps in the door and wound round his exposed ankles while he sat at the table. This was the time he usually sat with Bucky, back pressed against Bucky’s pine cone side, while he sketched or read. He shivered and hunkered down in his coat, missing Bucky’s warmth... missing _Bucky._

“Steve.” Bucky watched him with an uncertain expression on his face. He was stretched out on his pallet in front of the hearth, chin propped on his right hand, while his metal hand held a book open. “Do you want to come and sit with me? You look cold.”

He thought about joining Bucky on his pallet, resting his back against Bucky’s side, the warm give of muscle and flesh behind him… He reminded himself that Bucky had lied to him for weeks. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

Bucky’s face fell. “You were fine with it before,” he said.

“That was before,” he said.

“The offer still stands,” Bucky said softly, and went back to reading his book. By the light of the glow globes, Steve could just make out the way Bucky’s mouth turned down at the corners.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

It began about halfway through the second day, with fingers tapping every nearby surface. Then a constant shifting shifting shifting, like Bucky couldn’t get comfortable no matter what position he tried. Then the pacing began. Back and forth and back and forth, until Steve snapped at him to go outside and work off his energy before Steve brained him with a skillet. This earned Steve an injured look and a determined effort by Bucky to sit still, which lasted all of ten minutes.

The longer Steve spent with Bucky, the more he understood that the human form was unnatural for Bucky, and was uncomfortable to maintain for long periods of time. With the way restless energy seemed to thrum around Bucky, Steve began to worry that the dragon form might explode out of Bucky’s skin in an unguarded moment.

“Go outside and be a dragon for a while,” he said as he doodled an image of his cottage. Its door was hanging drunkenly off its hinges and a surprised-looking dragon’s head emerged from the doorway, while a long tail trailed out one window. But it wasn’t just Bucky and the structural integrity of his cottage he was concerned about. Being in such close proximity to Bucky in his human form was having a rather deleterious effect on his peace of mind.

Bucky shook his head and shifted on his pallet for the hundredth time. “Then I can’t talk to you.”

“Why—oh. Is it because I asked you to get out of my head?” A disconsolate shrug was his only answer. Steve exhaled a long sigh that took some of his anger with it. “I’m sorry I said that. I don’t mind if you talk to me in my head.” He liked it, in fact.

<Thank you.>

It was only when he heard Bucky’s voice in his head that he realized how much he’d missed it. “Well?” Steve said, when Bucky didn’t make any move to get up. “Aren’t you going to change?”

<No.> Bucky’s answer was accompanied by the sound of his finger tapping an irregular beat against the page.

“Why not?”

<I said I would follow you to the cottage, and that’s what I’m doing.>

Steve was well and truly confused now. “Why does that mean you can’t change back?”

<Because,> he said with finality.

“Is this about the treasure again,” Steve said, with what he felt was great self-restraint.

Bucky looked him straight in the eye. <No,> he said. <It is not.>

Was Bucky’s refusal to change a kind of penance for lying, Steve wondered, or to prove the truth of his need for Steve’s help? Whichever it was, it was working. He’d calmed down enough to realize that his impulsive decision to return to the cottage was a way to punish Bucky. At first, it’d been satisfying to see Bucky trying to fit his large body into the tight quarters of the cottage. But now, in the face of Bucky’s stubborn attempts to ignore his own increasing discomfort, he found it harder and harder to cling to his anger and hurt. Some time in the weeks he’d known Bucky, the dragon had barged his way into Steve’s heart, circled three times, settled himself down, and claimed a corner of it for his own.

On the fourth day, Steve said, “You told me that if you could do it over, you would have offered me the work without the bargain.”

Bucky perked up at Steve’s words. <I did.> He set down the knot of wood he was whittling into a strange, twisted shape and studied Steve across the width of the table. <Does this mean you’ll come back to the cave with me?>

“It depends.”

<On?>

Steve fidgeted with the mending in his hand. “On whether we can negotiate a suitable payment for my services.” A man needed to eat, wounded pride or no.

<Name your price,> Bucky said, without any hesitation.

“What if I ask for your entire hoard of treasure?”

<Ah, but you won’t.> Bucky leaned in as though confiding a secret. <Your integrity is unimpeachable.>

“It would serve you right—”

<Fifty gold pieces a month.>

Steve gaped at Bucky. “Are you insane? That’s too much.”

<You have just proved my point,> Bucky said with a smug smile. <But since you drive a hard bargain, forty gold pieces a month.>

“Will you be serious?”

<I am being perfectly serious. I would pay whatever price you asked.>

The thing that worried Steve was that he couldn’t tell if Bucky was joking or not.

<Hmm. You don’t look satisfied.> Bucky tilted his head and eyed Steve. <Thirty gold pieces a month, one for every day, and that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.>

“Idiot.” A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Who taught you to bargain.”

<As though you wouldn’t have been bargaining in the wrong direction as well,> Bucky scoffed. He held out his hand. <Do we have an agreement?> Bucky asked, all hints of teasing gone from his voice.

Bucky was paying him a king’s ransom to do very little. But if Bucky stayed in the area for a month, the money would keep him fed and housed for years, if he was careful. He would be a fool to refuse. “We do,” he said, as he gripped Bucky’s hand in his. He swallowed past the obstruction in his throat as the heat from Bucky’s hand seemed to make its way up his arm, curl round his chest, and wind tightly round his heart.

<I’m sorry,> Bucky said, still holding Steve’s hand. <I shouldn’t have lied to you, and I should have told you sooner. It was a thoughtless thing to do, and I hurt you. Will you forgive me?>

Steve looked at their clasped hands, then at Bucky, at the regret his expressive face gave away. He nodded once. Bucky’s eyes glowed with a quiet happiness, and when he smiled, soft and sweet, Steve felt the last of his anger slip away, and the hurt finally begin to scab over.

By unspoken agreement, they packed up their things and closed up the cottage, the silence between them edging once more towards companionable. It was evening when they got back to the cave. Bucky stubbornly maintained his human form up until he dropped his pack next to the bed. When he finally changed back, he stretched every muscle out and shuddered all over, happy to once again inhabit the much larger body that he was used to.

<I need to stretch my wings,> Bucky said. <But I will remain close by.>

“Stop worrying about me.” He got a rude snort in reply, and then Bucky was gone.

Steve had just finished putting away all his things when Bucky returned. The crawling restlessness that plagued Bucky at the cottage was gone, and he was much more settled into his skin.

Steve watched curiously as Bucky walked around the cave, stopping to inspect the places where Steve’s things were kept. The last place he stopped at was the table, where Steve had placed his roll of charcoals. He nosed at it, sneezed, and looked at Steve. <Will you come sit with me while you draw?>

Steve’s mouth compressed into a tight line and he blinked rapidly to ease the sudden prickle in his eyes. He nodded, not sure he could get words past the constriction in his throat. When he was settled once more in his usual place in the shelter of Bucky’s body—with a long, scaly tail curled round his waist, and a large dragon head snoozing on his shins—warmth soaked into him and filled the hollow place he’d carried inside him for the past few days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

The cold river water sank an unpleasant chill into his bones as he scrubbed out the cooking pot with sand. Ever since his night in the open, it had gotten harder and harder to stay warm. Three nights in a drafty cottage hadn’t helped. He would probably have succumbed to his annual winter cough without the restorative tisanes he brewed, and the warmth Bucky radiated. He might not say it, but he was grateful for Bucky staying close by ever since he’d noticed Steve wearing more layers around the cave.

<I think I’ll follow you to the market today.>

Steve looked over his shoulder at where Bucky was curled up behind him on the pebbled shore of the river. “Alright,” he said uncertainly. This was the first time Bucky had ever indicated any interest in going with him.

<How strong are your arms?>

“The stuff of legends.” He lifted the small cast-iron pot partway before lowering it with a grunt. “See?”

Bucky made a dubious sound. <It’ll have to do, I suppose.>

“Is there any reason why you’re being so cryptic?” Steve asked.

<You’ll find out soon enough,> Bucky said, in an even more cryptic manner.

Steve gave him a speaking look and finished rinsing out the pot. He lugged it back to the cooking area and left it inverted next to the circle of stones that ringed the campfire. “Shall we?” he said, after finishing up his chores, and tidying himself up.

<First, I need you to get something from that pack by the wall.>

Anticipation bubbled up in him as he hurried over to it. He’d been curious about its contents ever since he’d first noticed the large, misshapen pack tossed carelessly against the cave wall.

He pulled a tangle of dark, weathered leather out of the pack. When he had it laid out on the floor, the mess resolved itself into something that looked like a harness with wide panniers.

His eyes widened. “Is this a saddle?”

<No,> Bucky said. <It is not a saddle. One does not _saddle_ a dragon, Steve.>

He held back his smile at the outrage in Bucky’s voice—clearly this was a touchy subject. “Then what is it?”

<It’s a harness for you to hold onto when you r—when I carry you.>

“Oh.” It didn’t matter what Bucky insisted, he was going to ride a dragon. He was going to ride Bucky. His mind provided him with a detailed fantasy of riding Bucky in his human form and Steve went bright red. “Um.”

Bucky squinted at him. <You’re not scared of heights, are you?>

“I don’t think so,” Steve hurried to answer. “But then I’ve never been higher than the loft in Sam’s barn.”

<We won’t go too high then. Dress warm.>

And that was how Steve found himself screaming through the autumn sky, half in terror and half in exhilaration, clinging to Bucky with all his might. A special belt, attached to the harness by a thick braided leather cord, was wrapped securely around his waist. He was very _very_ grateful for that belt.

<You’re making my ears hurt, Steve.>

Steve ignored him and carried on screaming and laughing.

They landed near the outskirts of the village, Bucky bending his knees so that Steve hardly even felt the impact of touching down. He unclipped the belt with numb, trembling fingers, slid off Bucky’s back in a controlled fall, and collapsed onto his back in the grass, exhilaration humming in his veins like quicksilver. A trip that took him over an hour on foot, they’d completed in under fifteen minutes. He’d—he’d been hundreds of feet up in the air, moving at a speed he hadn’t even imagined was achievable, and seen the world in a completely new way.

He’d _flown._

Sam would be so envious. He couldn’t wait to see Sam so he could gloat. Eyes closed, he pictured the world sliding away behind them as he flew overhead on Bucky’s back.

A shadow darkened his eyelids when Bucky leaned over him. He smiled when Bucky nudging at his shoulder with his snout.

<Did you survive?>

“Ask me in a few minutes.”

Bucky huffed in amusement and nuzzled his hair before settling next to him.

When it felt like his heart was no longer trying to escape his chest, and his knees could support his weight, he got up and took out his basket from one of the panniers. Bucky shifted and shimmered like something seen through a heat haze on a hot summer day, and reformed into his human shape.

Steve pointed at him. “Where’d the harness go?!”

<It’s magic, Steve. Whatever I’m carrying will remain with that form until I change again. Did you never wonder why I’m not naked when I change into my human form?>

Steve had been trying very hard not to think about Bucky naked in his human form, to be perfectly honest. He’d gotten far too many glimpses of Bucky in various stages of undress while they’d shared the cottage, and the memory of Bucky’s bare torso was still keeping him up at night. The way Bucky looked now would also probably be keeping him up nights as well. The rich red silk of Bucky’s tunic set off his dark hair and his clear gray eyes, while the long leather belt wrapped around his waist showed off the way broad shoulders narrowed to a trim waist. Fine woolen hose clung to long, powerful thighs and well-shaped calves. He had on brown boots and leather gloves, and Steve could make out the glimmer of ruby earbobs on his ears.

Sometimes, Steve wished he’d never found out that Bucky had a human form. It made Bucky attainable in a way he hadn’t been before, it made Steve _yearn_ … To long for the moon was one thing, it was so distant and unattainable that the pain of wanting was a remote and abstract thing. But to be starving, and to see that one, perfectly ripe apple that lay just out of arm’s reach…

<Steve? What’s wrong?>

Steve blurted out the first thing that came to mind that _wasn_ _’t_ his hopeless attraction to Bucky. “Whatever you’re carrying, you said.” He thought for a moment. “Would that include me?”

<No. Nothing living.>

“So if you change while I’m on your back?”

Bucky tilted his head. <I actually don’t know.> A slightly manic light entered Bucky’s eyes and he leaned closer. <Do you want to try?>

Steve was actually tempted for one brief, mad moment, then he shook his head. “No,” he said with a shudder. “Imagine if we ended up all mixed up together.”

<Somebody must know,> Bucky mused with a faraway look in his eyes. <Surely someone’s tried it before.>

“Never mind mad experiments,” Steve said. “Let’s go.”

When they arrived in the market square, the atmosphere was subdued and silence rippled out around them as they walked. Bucky’s clothes marked him out as a man of wealth, and in the crowd of undyed homespun, he stood out like some fantastical exotic bird with scarlet plumage. He walked at Steve’s shoulder and didn’t seem to notice the whispers that broke out around them, and the way everyone’s eyes followed him. Not that Steve could blame them; he’d already gotten caught staring too many times on the walk to the market. He felt like his blush had taken up permanent residence on his cheeks.

He stopped at his usual stalls and made his purchases and pretended that there wasn’t a dragon in human form beside him.

<You can buy more, Steve. I can help you carry whatever you might need.>

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

Cameron froze in the middle of handing Steve his bread and gave him a wild-eyed look. Steve swallowed a sigh at his lapse. Hopefully Cameron wouldn’t think Steve was hearing voices.

“Ah...” Cameron gave Bucky a nervous glance before looking back at Steve. “About the dragon.”

Steve froze in the act of placing the bread in his basket. “Yes?”

“I, um.” He looked around. The people around them became engrossed in whatever they were doing, although they made sure to do it quietly enough that they could hear what was being said. “We saw it flying this way. Is it—Will it come here?”

“No.” Steve didn’t like having to lie, but he didn’t want to cause a general panic, either. And it _was_ sort of true, since Cameron was really only asking about Bucky’s dragon form.

There was a collective sigh of relief.

“Do you know where it is?” Cameron asked.

The dragon form, Steve reminded himself. “Not exactly.” Which was also true.

<What a fine liar you are,> Bucky said with sly amusement.

It would serve Bucky right if Steve stepped on his foot and left a nice muddy shoe-print on that fine leather boot.

“Oh, well. Thank you,” Cameron said with a smile. “It’s good to see you safe and well.”

Halfway to the butcher’s stall, Bucky went as still as stone. Goodwife Sally, who was walking behind them, made a startled sound and hurried past with a nervous nod at Steve.

Steve looked about, wondering what had caught Bucky’s attention. “What is it?”

Bucky ignored him. He cast about like an animal scenting the wind, then turned and stalked towards the tavern which lay just off the market square. Steve hurried after him and almost walked into his back when Bucky came to a sudden stop. He peeked round Bucky’s shoulder. Hells and damnation. At one of the tables under the tavern’s eaves sat Rumlow, Rollins, and a few of the men who hung about with them.

Rumlow studied Bucky, taking particular note of his rich clothing and the whimsical earbobs. “You have a problem, friend?” When Steve stepped out from behind Bucky, a canny wariness entered Rumlow’s eyes.

“Twice now you’ve left my companion to die.” Bucky’s voice was flat and grating, devoid of its usual warm smoothness.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rumlow’s tone skirted the edge of insolence, too cunning to antagonize someone as obviously wealthy as Bucky.

“You left him in front of my cave to be eaten.”

At the word ‘cave’, everyone at the table tensed up, and the people nearby got up and began backing away. Rollins was expressionless as always, but the other men at the table looked like they wanted very much to be someplace else.

Rumlow’s facade of confidence wavered for a fraction of a second. “Your cave?” he said, determinedly casual. “I didn’t leave Rogers for you, I left him for the dragon. I did it to save the village.” He threw his arms wide and looked around, canvassing the onlookers for support. “And it worked, too.” None of them would meet Rumlow’s eyes.

Bucky smiled. A cold, cold smile. A smile with far too many needle-sharp teeth. Teeth meant for rending and tearing. The teeth of a predator. The teeth of a dragon.

Everybody at the table shot upright and lurched back a few paces, making the bench tip over with a crash. Steve sucked in a shocked breath but when he blinked, Bucky’s teeth were back to normal.

“What the fuck are you?” Rumlow demanded, the whites of his eyes showing.

“A dragon,” Bucky said in a low and dangerous voice.

There was the sound of more benches overturning and stifled screams as people rushed out of the tavern. Only the four of them remained in the tavern courtyard now. So much for not causing a panic, Steve thought.

After a few shocked seconds, Rumlow said, “You can turn into a man?” He whistled in amazement. “Well then, I don’t see what you’ve got to be mad about. Looks like you like our little gift just fine. Hells, you should be thanking me.”

“And the second time? Should I thank you for that too?”

Steve looked back and forth between them. Second time? His hands curled into fists as his suspicions about that night were confirmed. “It was you,” Steve said to Rumlow. “That night. You were the ones who robbed me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rumlow ignored Steve and addressed Rollins without taking his eyes off Bucky. “Right?”

Rollins nodded once in agreement.

“You attacked him, stole his purse, and left him to die.” Bucky’s eyes were cold and flat. “I could smell you on him.” He looked at Rollins. “You too.” They took an involuntary step back at the menace in his voice.

Steve wasn’t even halfway to taking a step forward when Bucky had Rumlow by the throat. How had Bucky moved so fast? Steve hadn’t even known it was possible for anyone to move that fast.

Rollins charged at Bucky, but was stiff-armed in the chest and thrown back several feet into the tavern wall. He slid down and lay crumpled where he fell.

Bucky lifted Rumlow off the ground, high enough that his feet dangled in mid-air, and slowly began to squeeze. Rumlow clawed at Bucky’s wrist, his nails making a scraping, scrabbling sound that set Steve’s teeth on edge. But nails were useless against the smooth metal of Bucky’s arm.

“Bucky!” He lunged forward and grabbed Bucky’s forearm. “Don’t do this,” he said quietly, filled with a terrible conviction that Bucky would strangle Rumlow to death in cold blood unless he did something. Every breath Rumlow drew sounded like agony, the ugly, wheezing sound all too familiar to Steve.

<No one hurts what’s mine.> Bucky’s focus remained fixed on Rumlow, who was starting to turn a mottled purple.

The chill in Bucky’s voice was terrifying. “Don’t do this,” Steve repeated. Sure, he wanted to punch Rumlow, had been about to, in fact. But that would cause nothing more than a fat lip if he was lucky enough to land the punch. Bucky though… “There is no justice in this.” He tugged at Bucky’s arm. It didn’t move an inch.

“Yeah,” Rumlow choked out. He sucked in a breath. “Listen to—”

“Shut up, Rumlow,” Steve snapped, without taking his eyes off Bucky.

“Who said I seek justice.” Bucky watched Rumlow struggle for breath with cold, flat eyes, his face as remote and beautiful as the graven sentinels who guarded the temple doors.

“I won’t stand by and let you kill a defenseless man.” Steve set his jaw and got ready to stomp on Bucky’s foot, kick his shins, anything that might distract him. “Please. Let him go.”

Finally, finally, Bucky turned his head enough to meet Steve’s eyes. After a long moment in which Steve didn’t even dare to blink, Bucky opened his hand and let Rumlow fall to the ground.

Bucky watched dispassionately as Rumlow coughed and retched and massaged his bruised throat. Angry red marks in the shape of a hand were already visible on his neck. “If you ever come near him again,” Bucky said, smooth as a damascene blade, “you or your friends, there will be nothing left of you to bury. Do you understand me? I have your scent, I will find you wherever you hide.”

Jaw clenched, resentment in every line of his body, Rumlow nodded.

“Good,” Bucky said. “You should leave now.”

Rumlow held Bucky’s gaze for a moment before he looked away. Steve took his first easy breath as Rumlow walked off with a little extra swagger in his gait. Rumlow could be called many things, but coward was not one of them.

Now that the danger had passed, Steve could admit to the dark thrill he’d felt watching Bucky deal with Rumlow and Rollins. Bucky had moved with a direct and brutal efficiency that had made Steve’s mouth go dry, and not all of that was due to fear. Parts of that day would get added to the roster of dreams that had him waking up in the middle of the night, gasping and sweaty, and hoping that Bucky was a very sound sleeper. He was certain of it.

With a sigh, he looked around the courtyard. It was empty save for them, Rollins, who was still unconscious on the ground, and the disarray left by the fleeing customers. The market square was just as deserted, nothing left but empty stalls and abandoned wares.

He looked at the solitary loaf of bread in his basket. “I guess I won’t be buying sausages after all.”

Bucky stopped glaring after Rumlow. <I’ll fly you to the next village,> he said, unrepentant.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

The tightness in Steve’s chest progressed to a persistent cough. He could feel Bucky’s concern every time he wheezed or coughed, concern he showed by remaining curled around Steve as much as possible.

After a particularly cold night when Steve had coughed himself awake several times, he woke up in the morning to the sight of Bucky asleep next to his bed. Bucky must’ve dragged his nest there after Steve’s last bout of coughing. No wonder he’d felt cocooned in warmth and been able to sleep through till morning.

He turned on his side and watched Bucky sleeping, enjoying the muted bass rumble of his breathing. With slow, careful movements, he laid his hand on Bucky’s side, wanting to memorize the feeling of Bucky’s scales under his palm, the cadence of his breathing, and the dry heat that radiated off his body. It was only when Bucky began to stir that he pulled it back under his blanket.

A few days later, his cough turned wet and tearing. At the first sign of fever, Bucky changed into his human form and insisted on taking care of Steve. This included hectoring him into finishing his broth, and making him willow bark tea. Bucky’s cooking was abysmal, so they both agreed that Steve would continue cooking, fever or no. He was glad to have something to do, needed to feel like he was pulling his own weight, and wondered if that was Bucky’s intention all along.

The fever continued to worsen, until one night, he slipped into a delirium. Only flashes remained of that night. Feeling Bucky’s worry for him in every gentle touch. Bucky’s voice in his mind, asking Steve to stay with him. Hearing Bucky—as though from far away—calling for Natasha.

The fever broke some time near dawn, and he finally fell into a deep sleep. He woke up feeling like a wet rag that had been wrung out, and the miasma of his fever sweat hung in the air, shaming him. Here was all the evidence that Steve was no kind of treasure.

Bucky seemed troubled and withdrawn even after Steve was back on his feet. He pretended not to notice Bucky’s distraction, pretended everything was normal between them, but inside, he prepared himself for the worst. Despite his initial resistance to the idea, he’d gotten used to Bucky thinking of him as his treasure. And sometimes, with the way Bucky cared for him, he even felt… treasured. But Bucky would leave eventually, because his need to guard Steve wouldn’t last forever. Then Steve would smile, and say goodbye, and never let on that the worst thing he could imagine was watching Bucky fly away without him.

He was leaning against Bucky’s side, warming up after his sponge bath, when Bucky finally said something two days later. It was a relief to finally have it out.

<That night,> Bucky said, <when you were sick, there was a point when I thought—Your heart wasn’t beating properly, Steve.>

He couldn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. Defective. That was what some people called him. He pulled the blanket tighter against his chin. Ignore the jeers and mockery, his mother had counseled. He tried his best—his pride wouldn’t let him show any weakness anyway—but the words still lodged inside him; tainted fruit waiting for moments like these to spread their poison.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse from coughing.

<Why do you apologize?>

“Well, because I’m a—” he broke off. He hated acknowledging how much of a burden he was on everyone around him. “I’m supposed to be helping you but instead…”

<Why can’t I help you too? Are we not friends?>

Bucky sounded—anxious was the only word Steve could think of to describe the particular feel of Bucky’s words in his head. He freed one hand from his blanket and rested it on Bucky’s cheek. “You’re my friend, Bucky.”

<That’s good.> Bucky nuzzled Steve’s palm. <Because—there’s something I want to ask you.>

“Alright.” He tucked his hand back inside the blanket, very unsure now about where their conversation was heading.

Bucky’s wings twitched and resettled several times, shifting in an unusual display of agitation. <A dragon can form a bond with a particular human,> he said, watching Steve carefully. <We call that human a Companion. Once the bond is created, dragon and human remain together always.>

“Oh.” Steve’s heart felt like it was halfway up his throat as he thought about it, thought about spending the rest of his life with Bucky. “Are you asking me to be your—your Companion?”

<Yes.>

It wouldn’t be easy, but getting to stay with Bucky was worth the ache of wanting something that would remain forever out of reach.

“I accept.”

<Ah… I haven’t actually finished explaining what’s involved.>

“Sorry,” Steve muttered, as a flush heated his cheeks.

<If we bond, half of my life force becomes yours and—>

Steve jerked upright as all his half-formed imaginings scattered. “I’m not taking your life force!”

Bucky leaned in until they were snout to nose. <Will you let me finish?>

“Not taking it.” He folded his arms and set his jaw. He wasn’t worth Bucky’s sacrifice, especially when he didn’t even have all that many years left in him.

<Steve,> Bucky said reproachfully. <A dragon can live for several thousand years. If I share my life force with you, yes, my lifespan will be shortened. But>—

“Exactly why—”

—<your lifespan will be lengthened to match mine,> he continued over Steve’s interruption. <We could have a thousand years together. And you’ll share some of my strength as well, you won’t get sick anymore.>

He couldn’t even begin to picture it, a thousand years with Bucky. He wanted it, oh how he wanted it. Knowing that Bucky wanted them to remain together for all that time, knowing he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want what they had to end… his heart felt full to overflowing with an emotion he couldn’t express. And yet… “I can’t accept this,” he said, willing Bucky to understand. “It’s half your life, Bucky.”

The tip of Bucky’s tail coiled around Steve’s wrist. <I know it might seem extreme to you, but this is not so very rare an arrangement. There are dragons happy to share their life force if the right person comes along. Look at Nat and Clint… they’ve been together for over a hundred years, and I don’t think either of them have ever regretted their choice.>

He stared at Bucky, mute with surprise. He knew that Natasha and Clint cared for each other. It was hard to miss. Her exasperated affection for Clint came through clearly in her letters, just as Clint’s for her did in his irreverent annotations to her remarks. What he would have never guessed was that they had been together for that length of time.

<Half a lifetime with you is better than a full lifetime alone, Steve.> Bucky’s head tilted closer in entreaty. <Think of the things we would see together. In my lifetime, I’ve seen so many changes; new inventions, new innovations. I could show you all the wonders our artificers are capable of. We could visit different places and you could study physicking, if you wanted. You could study art.>

It was true that life in the confines of the cave was beginning to chafe. He needed to be useful, to be out and about, collecting and drying herbs, brewing tisanes and making poultices, helping villagers who needed help. But the price… Even to be with Bucky, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t take what Bucky was offering.

“It’s too much. You give up half your life so I can gain a long life, and health, and…”

<Do you think there is no price you have to pay?>

“It seems that way.”

<You give up the right to be fully a part of the human race, Steve. You can walk among them, but you will live with dragons, in dragon time. Do you understand? You will never truly belong in your world again, but you will never truly be part of mine.>

That gave Steve pause. He thought of everyone he knew growing old and dying while he remained young. Death was no stranger to him, he had survived the death of first his father, and then his mother. The experiences had been harrowing, but he’d come out the other side.

But to go through it again and again, over multiple human lifetimes; Sam, Jim, Gabe, and whoever else he might meet and befriend over the course of a thousand years… His gaze fell on the tail coiled around his wrist, then to Bucky watching him with solemn eyes. He would willingly bear that pain, he realized, because on the other side of that equation lay Bucky.

<I didn’t plan on asking you this soon. I wanted more time to convince you, to show you what it could be like…> Bucky rested his head back on Steve’s calves and closed his eyes. <But you nearly died that night. If I hadn’t been there—> A shudder rustled Bucky’s wings.

“Oh, Bucky,” he whispered. He leaned forward to stroke his hand down Bucky’s neck. He hated seeing Bucky distressed, but in the end, Bucky would be fine, would probably forget Steve after a few years. A human’s life must seem as ephemeral to a dragon as a mayfly’s did to a human.

<Don’t answer right away,> Bucky said quietly. <I’ve asked Nat and Clint to come and visit, so you can talk to them. Will you think about it?>

Would it be so bad to let himself dream for a little longer? He closed his eyes, too weak to resist the appeal in Bucky’s voice. “I will.”

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

<Steve!>

Steve abandoned his book on herbs and hurried out to see what had Bucky so excited. He stood at the cave mouth and squinted at the overcast sky. Two dragons were winging their way into the clearing; Bucky, and a slightly smaller dragon with scarlet markings on her wings, and a sandy-haired man perched on her back. What would the villagers think when they looked up to see not one, but two dragons in the sky?

<Steve, come meet Nat and Clint,> Bucky said, when he spotted Steve.

Steve walked out to greet the newcomers. Clint slid off Natasha’s back and landed lightly on the grass. A brawny man of medium height, he wore a long leather coat over a leather jerkin and buckskin trews. A bow fully as tall as he was, and a quiver of arrows, was strapped across his back. He had the sort of open, affable face that was easy to overlook in a crowd, if one missed the keen watchfulness of his gray eyes, and the light way he moved on his feet.

“Glad to finally meet you face to face,” Clint said, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Likewise.” They shook hands and Steve couldn’t help but smile back. “Maybe now I can get the real story of how you met Natasha.”

“You could’ve asked Buchanan,” Clint said. “He was there.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “He asked me to ask you.”

<No one else should have to tell that ridiculous story,> Bucky said. He moved behind Steve as Natasha approached.

Steve finally got a good look at her, the dragon Natasha. Her build was narrower and lighter than Bucky’s, built for speed more than power. The jet black of her scales reflected the muted sunlight and her crest looked like a halo of flame; black at the base, gradually shifting to scarlet at the tips. The claws on her feet were longer and narrower than Bucky’s. Where Bucky looked like he could pull an opponent apart with brute strength, Natasha looked like she could slice them to shreds.

She studied him with eyes as green as spring grass. <Steve,> she said finally. Her low, husky voice was friendly but reserved.

He straightened. “Natasha.”

<She’s the one I told you about,> Bucky said to him.

“Oh,” Steve said after a moment’s thought. He looked up at Bucky. “When you fought the Hydra?” No wonder Bucky and her were so close.

<Yes.>

Natasha looked at Bucky in surprise. From the way their heads angled towards each other, Steve guessed that they were communicating. It stung to be excluded.

<You can speak in front of him, Nat.>

After a brief glance in Steve’s direction, he heard her voice in his head. <You told him about that?>

<He asked about my leg,> Bucky said simply.

This time, when she looked back at him, her gaze was much warmer. <I’m pleased to finally meet you,> Natasha said with a regal nod of her head. <I was curious to see who had taken over writing Buchanan’s letters.> There was a teasing tilt to the angle of her head. <Your writing is much better than his.>

<Very funny,> Bucky said.

“Thank you,” Steve said with a smile. He’d wanted to meet her ever since he’d read her astute and often bitingly sarcastic observations.

<Let’s get inside,> Bucky said. <The cold isn’t good for Steve.>

Steve rolled his eyes and elbowed Bucky in the snout when Bucky tried to herd him back into the cave.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

Two dragons in a cave made for cramped quarters, so it was a relief when Bucky and Natasha left the cave. Even so, Steve couldn’t help feeling abandoned when he watched them fly off into the distance.

Clint was still asleep at the table when he went inside, head down on folded arms, so Steve went to get his herb pouch. It was time to check which herbs needed replenishing after his last bout with sickness. About halfway through laying everything out, Clint woke with a snort.

“Hey.” Clint stretched and yawned and looked around. “Where’re the dragons?”

“Went off to hunt.”

“That was subtle,” Clint murmured. He looked at the herbs spread out on the table. “Are you a physician?”

“Hardly,” he said. “My mother was the village wise-woman. I learned some of the lore from her. I tend to need physicking quite often, so I always keep some herbs around.”

“Well,” Clint said. “Since we’re being domestic…” He went to his pack and took out a bundle wrapped in oiled leather. Taking it over to the table, he unrolled it and laid out arrow shafts, feathers for fletching, and arrowheads. Selecting one shaft, he sighted down its length and began whittling away tiny curls of wood with a small knife. “So I hear Buchanan asked you to be his Companion?”

“Yes,” Steve said, and that was all he would say, he decided. He’d already made up his mind not to accept, so he should just keep his mouth shut and not ask Clint anything. “Can I ask you about it?” he heard himself say. “Being a Companion?” Blood and balls. So much for keeping his mouth shut.

“Of course,” Clint said. He set the arrow shaft aside and selected another one. “That’s why we’re here, Steve.”

“What exactly is the relationship between a dragon and a Companion?”

“Did Buchanan tell you,” Clint said, “that a dragon will only ever choose one Companion in their whole life?”

“He left that part out, actually. But then again, how many times would a dragon want to give up half their life force?” Steve put down the feverfew in his hands when he realized he was reducing it to shreds. “So does that make you Natasha’s husband?”

Clint laughed. “Oh no, nothing so simple. I’m her Companion, as she is mine.” He shrugged. “It’s difficult to explain. She would die for me, kill for me; she would protect me with her dying breath. And I would do the same for her.” He said simply, “I love her.”

The stark conviction in Clint’s words struck a deep chord in Steve. “Are you saying Bucky offered me the bond because he loves me?”

Clint’s face scrunched up in thought. “Dragons don’t use terms like ‘love’. They don’t understand it as we do. What they understand is treasure. Every dragon alive has a hoard hidden away somewhere.” Clint pointed at him with the knife in his hand. “If Buchanan asked you to be his Companion, then it means you are the thing he treasures most in this world. He’d be miserable without you. And dragons have long lifespans and long memories. That’s a long time to be miserable.”

He chewed his lip and considered Clint’s words. When it was put like that, what right did he have to decide what Bucky could do with his own life force?

Clint studied him for a moment, then nodded. “But you need to remember, dragons hold on to their treasures,” he said gravely. “If you become his Companion, it has to be because you want the exact same thing. You have to be very sure, because he will never let you go.”

Well… it wasn’t as though he was all that keen on letting Bucky go, either. “What’s it like being a Companion?”

“It’s not always easy.” Clint looked down at the half-made arrow in his hands. “You’ll see friends and family die of old age while you remain outside the flow of human time.”

Steve nodded. He’d always believed his friends would outlive him, so he wasn’t prepared for how much the thought of watching them age and die hurt.

“After a while, you’ll give up trying to befriend regular people. Most of us have learned to find our friendships with other Companions. It’s easier,” Clint said. “Easier if people don’t know about us. We don’t stay anywhere too long, don’t let people see that we don’t age. Don’t get involved.” Clint shrugged when he said this, but his grip on the arrow was a little too tight.

Clint was silent for moment. “But there’s nothing like it in the world. The things we’ve seen together…” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I wouldn’t give up my lady for anything,” he said, lips curved into a private smile. It was quiet while Clint remained lost in thought. Then he blinked and focused on Steve.

“Apart from the extended lifespan,” Clint continued, “there are a few other little benefits of being a dragon’s Companion.”

“Bucky did mention I won’t get sick anymore,” Steve said.

“That’s one. Another is that you can speak to Bucky, you know, the way dragons do. Without making a sound. And over quite a long distance. Very useful, I can tell you. Especially when, ah… when trouble likes to find you.”

Steve got the distinct feeling Clint was speaking from experience. He pictured Natasha descending from the sky like the wrath of all the gods to rescue Clint from whatever trouble had found him. Or, also entirely likely, whatever trouble he’d found.

Clint paused in the middle of tying an arrowhead onto a shaft, and looked out the cave mouth. “They’re back. Come on,” he said with a smile. “They’ll put on a show if they know we’re watching.”

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

The day of Natasha’s and Clint’s departure dawned cold and overcast, and by the ache in his knees, Steve could tell that the snows were on their way. Overhead, Bucky and Natasha tumbled and glided through the air on one last hunt. It looked more like a game of aerial tag than anything else, teeth snapping together a hair’s breadth from wing membranes twitched aside at the last moment. Watching that savage and beautiful dance sent a pang of wonder through him as he stared up at them from the mouth of the cave.

He wondered if the villagers were enjoying the show. They’d definitely noticed Natasha’s arrival because Sam had shown up at the cave the very next day to ask about the new dragon. The villagers had nominated him since “I didn’t get eaten the last time I was here.” Sam had let himself be persuaded to stay for dinner; try though he did to hide it, he was curious about the dragons and Clint. It’d been nice seeing Bucky and Sam getting along, at least until Bucky had asked what Steve was like growing up.

The dragons alighted in unison, grace and power in every motion, timing their wingbeats so precisely that they didn’t get in each other’s way. As he walked out to meet them, he wondered if that was how they’d moved when they’d battled the Hydra: as one.

<I hope you’ll come visit us, Steve,> Natasha said, as she walked towards him. Unlike Bucky, she kept her tail a few inches above the ground when she walked. <You’ll have all the time in the world if you accept Buchanan’s offer. And I might be convinced to tell you the story of how I met Clint.>

“Bribery, Natasha? Really?”

<You can’t fault me for trying to sway your decision in favor of my friend,> Natasha said, with a teasing lilt to her voice.

<You see?> Bucky said, as he moved next to Steve. <So many benefits, Steve.>

Steve snorted. “Chief among them, you?”

<But of course.>

Natasha walked over to where Clint was laying out the flight harness. “Come on, my lady,” Clint said, as he slapped her rump. “Time to get you saddled up.”

Natasha twisted her head around blindingly fast and snapped her jaws together with an audible click a bare inch away from Clint’s nose. Clint laughed, and pushed her away with a hand on her snout.

<Don’t get any ideas, Steve,> Bucky said.

“I’m taking notes as we speak,” he murmured.

Once the flight harness was on, packs loaded into panniers, and Clint’s bow strapped to his back, it was time for farewells.

“Keep in touch,” Clint said. He slapped Steve’s shoulder hard enough that he staggered sideways a step.

Steve rubbed his shoulder and shot Clint a dirty look, much to Clint’s amusement. “I will,” he promised.

Then it was the dragons’ turn. They touched snouts and closed their eyes. Steve could almost sense the quiet hum of their communication. It was a long moment before they stepped back. Clint clambered up onto Natasha’s back and waved goodbye and then Natasha took off.

They leaned against each other and watched the dragon and her Companion fade from sight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

Steve wiggled his toes. “Bucky,” he said.

Bucky lifted his head off Steve’s blanket-covered feet with an aggrieved snort. <Yes, Steve.>

“Do you still want me to be your Companion?” He continued adding lines to his sketch as though his heart wasn’t lodged partway up his throat.

<Yes,> Bucky said with surprise. <Of course, I do. Why?>

“Well, because Natasha and Clint have been gone for two days and you haven’t said anything.” He avoided Bucky’s gaze by adding more shading to the scales around Bucky’s eyes. “I’m starting to wonder if you’ve changed your mind.”

<I won’t change my mind, Steve, I’ll wait as long as I have to for your answer.> Bucky laid his head back down and watched him intently. <Are you ready to answer?>

“Can I ask you something first?”

<Of course.>

He took a breath and let it out. “Do you plan to mate with another dragon?” He couldn’t tie himself to Bucky for multiple human lifetimes if Bucky was going to find himself a dragon mate.

<We either mate with a dragon or we bond with a human. It’s one or the other, Steve, and it’s for life. We eschew all others.> Bucky’s voice took on a slight edge. <Why? Do you plan to mate with a human?>

“No,” Steve said, with an emphatic shake of the head.

<Good,> Bucky replied. <Dragons do not share.>

“About… mating.”

Bucky cocked his head and waited as Steve fumbled for words. <Yes?> he prompted.

Anxiety prickled his skin as he tried to get his question out. He’d learned early that his attentions were rarely welcome. “In your human form, would you want to—lie with me?”

<Yes.> There was no hesitation in Bucky’s answer, and no doubt. He answered as though it was the most natural thing in the world to want a weak, skinny human with little to recommend him. <Would _you_ want to lie with me?>

“Yes,” he answered, amazed that Bucky even needed to ask. “I would.”

<Well, now.>

There was a shimmer and a sense of displacement, and then Steve was lying back on the blankets, with Bucky in his human form above him. The predatory smile on Bucky’s face made his insides go hot and shivery. He traced the corner of one beautiful gray eye. “You have crinkles here when you smile.”

Bucky turned and pressed a kiss into the center of Steve’s palm. Steve inhaled sharply when he felt the hot wet velvet of Bucky’s tongue against his skin.

<I like the way you taste.> Bucky leaned in and whispered in his ear, low and gravelly, “I could eat you right up.”

Shivers of pleasure chased down his spine. “I’ve never,” he gasped, “never done this before. I don’t know what to do.”

A low, rumbling, purring sound emanated from somewhere in the region of Bucky’s chest. <You touch me where you want to, kiss me where you want to, taste me where you want to. Like this.> Bucky traced Steve’s lips with his fingers. <Touch.> Next, he pressed his lips to Steve’s. <Kiss.> Then he licked across the seam of Steve’s lips. <Lick.>

Bucky pulled back and it took Steve a moment to focus on him. <You see?>

“Show me again,” Steve whispered.

Bucky gave a pleased laugh. <Gladly.> He settled his weight on one elbow and leaned down to kiss Steve. This time, he was more thorough, nipping and licking and sucking at Steve’s lips, like he was savoring them. It was a heady feeling. When the tip of Bucky’s tongue gently pressed into his mouth, he groaned and parted his lips to grant Bucky entry.

He was rewarded by another low rumble from Bucky and the feeling of Bucky’s tongue stroking against his own. Heat pooled low in his gut and his hips rolled of their own volition. They both groaned when the movement rubbed his hardening cock against Bucky’s. His heart lurched in his chest and then Bucky jerked back.

“Why did you stop?” Steve gasped.

<Your heart. It did something.>

“It does that all the time.”

<We should stop. I’m not risking you.>

Steve groaned. “I survived getting kidnapped and dumped in front of your cave, Buck. I doubt your kisses are going to kill me.”

<That’s because I’ve only been kissing your mouth,> Bucky said, a little disgruntled. <And what did I say about calling me Buck.>

Only kissing—”What else can you kiss?”

Bucky’s lips curled up into a sly smile. <Bond with me and find out.>

“That’s blackmail!”

Bucky’s grin was unrepentant.

“What if I bond with you and you can’t deliver?”

<Oh, I’ll deliver,> Bucky said, voice silky smooth with promise.

Steve would be damned if he was going to let his odd heartbeat get in the way of… anything. He trailed his fingers up Bucky’s side. “Bucky,” he breathed, in what he hoped was a seductive manner. This earned him a hand wrapped around his wrists and both arms pinned above his head.

Bucky glared at him with darkened eyes. <Stop that.>

Who needed hands? Steve tilted his hips up and slid his body along Bucky’s, relishing the heated feel of Bucky’s body against his own. He bit his lip to hold back the sounds that wanted to spill out. If it felt this good with their clothes on…

Bucky growled and rested his full weight on Steve to pin him in place. Steve gasped, overwhelmed by the heat and pressure of Bucky’s body against his. He needed—he didn’t know what he needed, but he couldn’t hold back a moan as he writhed helplessly under Bucky.

<Gods’ balls.> Bucky leaped off the bed like he’d been scorched.

Steve made a grab for him, but he moved too fast. Steve was left half dangling out of the bed as Bucky shifted back into his dragon form. Steve straightened up and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Come back here, you coward.”

<The word you’re looking for is ‘prudent’, Steve.> Bucky paced restlessly back and forth, tail twitching with pent up energy. <I’m not going to risk your heart stopping while we tup. If you’re in such a hurry, bond with me.>

“Alright.” Steve folded his arms and glared, gooseflesh chasing across his skin without Bucky’s heat to keep him warm. “I will.”

Bucky froze. Even the tip of his tail stopped moving. <Right now?>

“Yes.”

<Steve,> Bucky said warily. <You’re not thinking straight right now. Don’t rush into this just because you’re frustrated.>

“Idiot.” How was he to resist this ridiculous dragon who insisted on watching out for Steve even at his own expense. He got up and walked over to stand in front of Bucky. “I’m saying yes because…” What was it Clint had said? “Because you are my most precious treasure.”

There was a moment of silence as dragon stared at man. Then, black wings furled around Steve and pulled him close. Bucky arched his neck to brush his snout against Steve’s temple. <As you are mine.>

He pressed his cheek to the hollow at the base of Bucky’s neck and breathed in the scent he’d come to associate with home. The strong, steady beat of Bucky’s heart vibrated through him, filling up places inside him he hadn’t even known were empty. He’d done it, agreed to tie his life to Bucky’s for a thousand years. In the end, he didn’t even feel as guilty as he’d thought he would, because if he were the dragon, and Bucky the human, he would offer up half his life without any hesitation.

<If we do this, you will never be free of me.>

Bucky’s words called forth an answering surge of possessiveness. “Good.” He reached up to cup Bucky’s cheeks and pull his head down level with his own. “The same goes for you.”

Bucky nodded. <Understood.>

“Well, come on,” Steve said with a pat to Bucky’s cheek. “How do we do this?”

<So romantic,> Bucky murmured with a smile in his voice. <We should get comfortable.> He led Steve back to his pallet.

For a ritual that would transfer half of Bucky’s life force to him, the steps were unexpectedly mundane. Sitting facing each other, they leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. Bucky tented his wings over them, shutting out the world. This was the moment at which his life was about to change forever. Or perhaps, Steve thought, that moment had passed without his notice on the day he’d first met a dragon.

He waited, conscious of the sound of their breaths and the way his heart pounded in his chest. Then, there was a sideways slipping shift, the world went out of focus, and for a brief moment, it was like their souls overlapped and merged. He could feel everything that Bucky felt for him, and it was like being immersed in a vast warm pool. He felt safe there, and wanted. He felt... loved. Something bloomed in his chest, something warm and heavy and honey-like.

There was another shift, and that sense of merging was gone. They were themselves again, two separate entities. He felt the loss of that sense of union, but it was also a relief to be alone in his head again. Except... there was still something connecting him to Bucky, a small thread of awareness, at the end of which was Bucky’s presence.

“I can feel you,” he said with awe. He leaned back and looked up at Bucky. “Can you feel me too?”

Bucky furled his wings and nuzzled Steve. <I can,> Bucky said, voice soft and hushed, sounding as overwhelmed as Steve felt.

When Steve went to stroke Bucky’s cheek, he was surprised to notice the tremor in his hand. He rested his cheek against Bucky’s neck while he explored the thread in his mind. It was odd, feeling Bucky connected to him, not a part of Steve, but just… there, warm and comforting.

He concentrated hard and projected his thought at the warm little feeling of _Bucky_ in his mind. <Bucky?>

Bucky’s wings twitched. <A little softer,> he said.

Steve gave him an embarrassed look. <Sorry,> he sent in what he hoped was a normal tone.

<Better.>

He felt a brief moment of panic when something occurred to him. <Will we be able to read each other’s minds?> No one should have their innermost thoughts exposed like that.

<No. That’s not how the bond works. We can’t tell what the other is thinking or feeling.>

“That’s good,” he said, slipping back into normal speech.

<How do you feel?>

Steve considered it for a moment, then stood up. He felt—a laugh escaped him. He felt so light. He hadn’t realized how the various aches and pains of his body weighed on him until they were gone. No more dull ache at the base of his spine, no more tightness in his chest when he tried to breathe. Everything looked brighter and sharper, and even the sound of the river was clearer to his ears.

He jumped and hopped and couldn’t help a whoop of glee at the easy strength that flowed through his limbs. Was this how normal people felt? Sam when he trained with his sword, thrusting and parrying while Steve struggled to complete even one swing two-handed?

“What—? How—?”

Bucky made a chuffing sound. <A dragon’s life force is a powerful thing.>

Steve laughed again, euphoric with the release from pain, and flung his arms around Bucky’s neck. “Change,” he demanded.

<What?>

“Change to your human form. Finish what you started. There’s nothing wrong with my heart now.”

The air shimmered around Bucky and Steve found himself pressed back against the blankets. <So demanding.> Bucky licked a trail up Steve’s neck. <I like it.>

Finally. Steve slid his fingers into Bucky’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss. He opened his mouth eagerly to accept Bucky’s tongue and swallowed a moan when Bucky rested his full weight on him. He loved it, loved being pressed into the soft pile of blankets, and couldn’t help pushing back to heighten the sensation.

Bucky made an approving sound, low and humming, that vibrated through Steve. A large, hot hand slid down Steve’s leg, cupped the back of his knee and hooked Steve’s leg around Bucky’s hip. Gods, the sensations. The heat and weight of Bucky on top of him, the way their cocks aligned and slid against each other’s, every sensation sharp and new-minted. Steve’s head tipped back as he sucked in a breath.

<Beautiful,> Bucky murmured, as he bit gently at the cord of Steve’s neck.

The feel of Bucky’s teeth on his skin made his breath catch. “You—you never said anything about biting.”

Bucky pulled back. <Did I hurt you?>

“No,” he said, with a firm shake of his head. “But can I bite you wherever I want?”

<Certainly, you may.>

When Bucky smiled and leaned in to kiss him, he did what he’d been wanting to do for a long time. He buried his hand in Bucky’s hair and nipped at the sweet curve of the lower lip he’d spent too much time sketching on the sly. This earned him a pleased growl and a deep, thorough kiss that left him gasping for breath.

<I like a fast learner,> Bucky’s voice whispered in his mind as warm lips trailed their way to Steve’s ear.

He cried out when Bucky’s tongue traced the whorls of his ear, the blend of soft velvet wetness and hot breath sending shivers chasing their way down his spine and sensation shooting straight to his cock. His cheeks burned at the way his cry echoed off the walls of the cave. When teeth nipped at the tip of his ear, he bit down on his lip to stifle the sounds that were trying to push their way out of his throat. How was it possible for an ear to be that sensitive?

<Don’t do that,> Bucky said. He sucked Steve’s earlobe into his mouth, pulling another muffled whimper from Steve. <Let me hear you, Steve.>

A long groan escaped him at Bucky’s words. “Bucky…”

<That’s it.> Bucky cupped Steve’s cheek and tilted his head for another deep, slow kiss before he sat up and straddled Steve’s hips.

“No,” Steve protested. “Come back.”

<Patience, Steve.> Bucky pulled Steve up and tugged off his tunic, balling it up and tossing it aside, before pulling off his own. Steve’s eyes caught on the strong muscles of Bucky’s body and the hard gleam of the metal arm. Rather than detract from his beauty, the metal arm, and the scars at the seam, made Bucky even more beautiful to Steve. They told the stories of Bucky’s life and choices, stories that were etched onto his skin and grafted onto his bones.

Seeing that beauty, Steve’s arms twitched with the urge to cover his own pale, bony chest. But then he remembered that breathless, perfect moment when he’d seen himself through Bucky’s eyes, so he made himself look up. His breath caught at the way Bucky stared at him—like a starving man presented with a plate full of delicacies, trying to decide which treat to unwrap first.

Steve watched, mesmerized, as Bucky reached out and traced a line down Steve’s chest with a metal finger. The cold touch shocked a gasp from him as gooseflesh chased over his skin. Bucky looked up at the sound. He studied Steve for a long moment, focused and intent like the predator he was, then he smiled; slow and pleased. Steve’s gut clenched, and he wondered what Bucky saw on his face to put that smile there. Bucky spread his flesh hand over Steve’s chest and pushed until Steve lay back, heart pounding in anticipation.

Bucky circled Steve’s nipple with one cold finger, never quite touching Steve where he wanted it most, then followed the same path with his tongue, switching back and forth between Steve’s nipples. The longer Bucky avoided touching them, the more they throbbed and ached for his touch. When Bucky finally stroked his tongue over one nipple, Steve was a writhing, sobbing mess. He wasn’t clear on what followed, all he remembered was the cold touch of metal on his skin, followed by the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth, over and over again as Bucky worked his way down Steve’s torso.

By the time Bucky’s mouth hovered over his navel, he was close to begging. He was so sensitized that even the rush of hot breath over his skin sent shivers racing through him.

<Do you want to know where else I want to kiss you?>

He jerked and gasped when Bucky nipped lightly at the soft skin of his belly. Oh gods, did he mean—Bucky began unlacing his hose and he lost all ability to speak.

Bucky caught his lower lip between his teeth and smirked up at Steve while he pulled off Steve’s hose, taking shoes and socks with it. Strong hands slid slowly up Steve’s thighs, spreading them and pinning them to the bed. Anticipation throbbed hot and liquid in his veins as Bucky looked up at him, smiled, and licked his lips.

<Are you ready?>

Steve’s back arched off the bed and he cried out as Bucky slid his mouth down over Steve’s cock. It was a confusion of sensations; feverish wet heat, the velvety rub of Bucky’s tongue, and a rhythmic suction that slowly drove Steve out of his mind.

<Do you like it?> Bucky’s voice whispered hotly in his mind.

Steve was starting to see the advantages of being able to talk mind to mind, because he loved what Bucky was doing with his mouth and tongue, but he also loved having Bucky’s voice in his head. He forced his eyes open and looked down. The way Bucky looked, with his lips stretched around Steve’s cock—he conceded that Bucky was right to wait, he probably would have died. “It’s alright, I suppose,” he choked out.

This earned him a growl from Bucky that made his eyes roll back in his head.

<Only alright? So I should stop, then?>

Steve kneed him weakly in the side. “Don’t you dare.”

Bucky hummed, managing to convey both amusement and smug satisfaction. The vibration transmitted itself to Steve’s cock and pleasure crested, unexpected and sudden. He cried out and clutched at Bucky’s hair, every muscle in his body gone taut. Bucky swallowed and swallowed around him, dragging more sensation out of him until he collapsed back on the bed, every muscle loose and liquid.

Bucky watched him with an indulgent smile, chin propped on his hand. <I knew you’d taste good, Steve. I knew from the moment we met.>

“You did not,” he said, as he combed out the tangles he’d left in Bucky’s hair.

<I did.> Bucky’s voice was smug. <A dragon knows these things.>

“Come here,” Steve said, tugging at Bucky’s hair. “It’s my turn.”

There was a brief flurry of movement, Steve’s world went upside down, and then he was upright and straddling Bucky.

<I’m all yours,> Bucky said expansively.

Steve caught his breath when he took in the beauty of Bucky laid out before him. In the soft light from the glow globes, his skin gleamed gold with health. And his eyes… Steve loved the way Bucky’s eyes shone with so much life and mischief. He still couldn’t quite believe that Bucky had chosen him, but he was so very glad that Bucky had.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Bucky’s lips. “I don’t know what to do.”

<Whatever you want,> Bucky replied, his voice gentle and reassuring. He picked up Steve’s hand and brought it to his mouth. Bucky’s lips were warm and soft as he spoke into the palm of Steve’s hand. <Anything you do will feel good because it’s you.>

“Bucky,” he whispered, throat tight with emotion. Bucky smiled and pulled Steve down into a sweet, drugging kiss.

Steve let his hands wander over Bucky’s skin. He traced the curve of Bucky’s jaw with his lips, nibbled his way down Bucky’s neck. He learned that the small hollow behind Bucky’s jaw was sensitive, and would earn him an expletive and a very interesting movement of Bucky’s hips when licked.

He learned that he loved the feel of Bucky’s skin against his own. It didn’t matter which parts of their bodies were in contact, he wanted to rub himself against Bucky until they both came. He stored that idea for another day. He continued stroking his hands over Bucky, slowly undoing Bucky’s trews while he explored Bucky’s body with his mouth.

He learned that he loved the slightly salty taste of Bucky’s skin. He licked and sucked, chasing the taste. The sounds Bucky made when he found a particularly sensitive spot, or touched him just right; the curses, the groans, the exhalations; he loved those too.

He learned that he loved the heady power of being able to give Bucky pleasure; until Bucky was straining for release, until he broke and shuddered and called out Steve’s name and spent in Steve’s mouth.

And after everything was over, he learned that he loved the closeness of lying skin to skin with Bucky, breathing quietly in the dark as their hearts returned to their normal pace.

 

๑ ๑ ๑

 

“So you’re really leaving with the”—Sam faltered as Bucky walked out of the cave on two legs, carrying a mountain of packs in his arms—”dragon.” He shook his head. “I still cannot get over that.”

The morning air was bitingly cold, and a thin rime of frost silvered the grass of the clearing. As they watched, Bucky unloaded the packs in his arms, Steve’s small, battered pack among them. 

Everything he needed was in that pack. The sampler his mother had sewn that used to hang over his bed, a prayer to the gods to bring good health to her son picked out in delicate stitches, threads faded by time. A drawing of Sam and his family that he’d done two Christmases ago, when Sam still laughed loudly and easily. His bag of herbs. His roll of charcoals. His clothes. Around his neck, he wore his mother’s locket.

“Yes, I am.”

Sam was silent for a moment, then he looked at Steve with serious eyes. “You take care of yourself.” He waggled a finger at Steve. “Don’t start any fights. You may have a dragon watching out for you now, but that doesn’t mean you get to be even more reckless.” He laughed under his breath. “A dragon…” Sam’s eyes were sad, even though he smiled. “I’m going to miss you.”

Steve found himself pulled into a hug. “No, you won’t,” he choked out. “You’ll be too busy working your way up the ranks.” They pulled apart and looked everywhere but at each other. “I’ll miss you too,” Steve said.

It was already beginning. Once he left the area, who knew how often he’d get to see Sam. Bucky had promised they’d come back often, so he would get to see Gabe and Jim, get to see Jim’s little girl grow up. But there was no guarantee Steve would get to see Sam. The life of a soldier was a risky one, and even though Baron Phillips wasn’t at war, that could change at any time.

“Come on, Steve, don’t look like that.” Sam nudged him. “You were always meant for more than this. And now you’ll get the chance.”

Steve tried to smile, but gave up when his lips wobbled. He held out the scroll in his hands. “For you,” he said.

With careful fingers, Sam opened it. “Steve,” he whispered after a moment.

It was the sketch of the Wilson family that Steve had done at the cottage. It seemed right to give it to Sam since he’d be returning to his post soon. When Sam turned it over, he snorted at the drawing that Steve had added to the back. It was a small doodle of himself with fists clenched, jaw sticking out, facing a sly-looking Bucky, who was sitting on his haunches, tail crooked at a jaunty angle.

“It’s good parchment,” Steve said. “Tough. It’ll travel well.”

“Thank you, Steve.” Sam rolled up the scroll and pulled Steve into another hug. “I’ll take good care if it.”

“You take care of yourself, too,” Steve said into Sam’s shoulder. “I’m not the only reckless one.”

They stepped back and cleared their throats simultaneously. “Well,” Sam said, as he picked up his horse’s reins. “I should be getting back.”

His attention was caught by something over Steve’s shoulder. Steve turned to see Bucky walking over to them. He stopped by Steve’s side and held out his hand to Sam. After a moment of surprise, Sam took it.

<Thank you, Sam. I know you have been a good friend to Steve.>

Sam shared a glance with Steve, surprised and pleased and also a touch nervous. “It’s not always easy being friends with someone who doesn’t have the sense the gods gave a cow”—

“Hey!” Steve interjected

—”but I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

<I can understand that.>

“Hey!” Steve said again, this time a little louder. Bucky and Sam ignored him and shared a commiserating smile that made Steve want to punch both of them.

<Know that you will always have a friend in me as well, and the friendship of a dragon is no small thing.>

“‘Friendship of a dragon is no small thing’.” Steve snickered. “Why are you talking like that, Buck?”

Bucky glared at him. <This is a formal parting, and thus deserves formal words. To most people, I am the Dragon Buchanan, a being to be feared and respected, and whose favor is to be sought. Not some poor soul called Buck.>

Sam looked between them and started laughing. “You two are perfect for each other.” To Bucky, Sam said, “I wish you the best of luck with this one.” He clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Very funny, Sam.”

Bucky put an arm around Steve and tucked him against his side. <I’m fairly certain I’ll need it.>

Sam got on his horse and with a final wave to them, rode off in the direction of the village. Bucky was a warm presence beside him, holding him without comment while Steve watched Sam’s retreating back. Just before disappearing into the trees at the edge of the clearing, Sam turned around one last time and raised his hand in farewell. Steve raised an answering hand, his vision shimmering for a moment before he blinked furiously. When his vision cleared, Sam was gone.

<Well, Steve?> Bucky said after a long moment. He wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and pulled him close. <Are you ready to leave this place?>

He thought of his mother, whose memory he carried with him. He thought of Sam, who wanted to escape the place Riley fell. He thought of Gabe, and Jim, both woven into the fabric of village life. He thought of the kindness of some, and the casual cruelty of others. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Yes,” he mumbled into Bucky’s shoulder. But he made no move to leave the comfort of the arms that held him.

It was quiet in the clearing as Steve willed himself to take the first step. “Let’s go,” he said finally.

Just over two months to the day he’d been left in the clearing for Bucky, they flew out together.

<Will you miss it?> Bucky asked.

Steve watched the village pass under them, fields left fallow, and trees bare of leaves. <Yes,> he said. <But you’re my home now.> He gave a startled laugh when Bucky dipped one wing and banked.

<A home is a treasure beyond price,> Bucky said.

<It is, indeed.>

**Author's Note:**

> Come find us on tumblr :) [sealcat](http://fadesealcat.tumblr.com/) and [yetanotherobsessivereader](http://yetanotherobsessivereader.tumblr.com/)


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